Bloody Sunrise: An electrifying psychological thriller Read online

  “Let them go back to Saudi Arabia or Iran,” he blurted, pronouncing Iran ‘Eye-ran.’ “Let ’em go where they can behead and blow each other up as much as they want, but keep them the hell out of the red white and blue.”

  Denny was going to have to get Brig’s attention somehow. Brig’s eyes were bloodshot, as if he’d been getting high. Whatever, Denny knew he was going to have to be vulnerable to get the information he needed, well, to find out whatever it was he’d done the night of Rashida’s murder. And hopefully get an inkling of who killed her. A realization hit—he sucked in a quick breath—he’d been a coward, only concerned about himself, while Rashida’s killer was out there roaming free. Meanwhile, Rufus Tucker continued ranting.

  “We need to get rid of these people. They’re infiltrating our institutions. Did you notice how many are pharmacists? You can’t miss them with their damn headscarves. How long will it be until their mullahs start ordering them to poison our prescriptions? Tell me that, will ya?”

  Denny couldn’t handle listening to the blowhard’s hate anymore. But Brig was sitting plugged in next to the guy like a chick under a mother hen’s wing. And Brig knew, Denny having been married to a Muslim, that what the man was saying was repugnant to Denny, but he kept listening to the man as if he were God himself.

  “Brig,” Denny called. No response. “Brig,” he called again. The bar was just noisy enough and Tucker rambling sufficiently loudly that Brig might not have heard. Just might. Denny walked to him and took his elbow.

  Brig shook him off. “Hey!”

  Denny looked him in the eye. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Later, man. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Brig, it’s important.”

  “What part of ‘Can’t you see I’m busy’ don’t you understand?”

  Denny sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about this morning. It was all my bad.”

  “Yeah, it was. Now go away.”

  Denny felt a hand slap his back. He turned. Tucker.

  “Good to see you again...” Tucker looked at Brig, who mouthed, ‘Denny.’ “...Benny.”

  Brig said, “It’s Denny.”

  “Oh,” Tucker said, laughing. “I blame it on the cheap whiskey. Apologies are offered,” he said with a small bow.

  Denny nodded. He turned back to Brig.

  “So.” Tucker again. “Brig tells me you’re also a hero serving our great country as a first responder.”

  Who was this guy? Denny had to look at him. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Well then, please do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink. Now what’ll you have?”

  I’ll have you get off my back is what I’ll have, Denny thought. “Thanks but not now.” Again he turned to Brig. “Can we go outside to talk for a minute? Just for a minute, Brig?”

  “Now I insist.” Tucker again. “I consider it my patriotic duty to buy one of our country’s heroes a drink, Benny.”

  Denny was losing it with the guy. And he was sure Tucker intentionally called him by the wrong name this time. He glared at him. “I told you, it’s Denny.” Again he turned back to Brig, asking his help this time with his eyes.

  “Ah.” Tucker again. “Looks like you need a little old-fashioned arm twisting.” Once more, he slapped his hand on Denny’s shoulder.

  It happened so fast. Denny hunkered down, sprung up and took the guy out with a right, Tucker dropping like a brick to the beer-soaked floor.

  Chapter Seven

  Denny could hardly believe he’d just punched out Rufus Tucker. Oh, he’d been in bar fights before but he’d always been drunk. And here he was clear-eyed sober. Brig had hurried him out of The Wild Bull as Tucker’s friends started coming after him. It was snowing outside.

  “That was a big mistake, Denny. A huge one,” Brig said, his words accompanied by vapor clouds in the cold air out front of the bar.

  “The guy wouldn’t let me breathe, Brig. You heard how many times he busted my balls, and when he touched me again I just lost it.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s going to be repercussions. Tucker’s got some bad dudes for friends and they are going to be very not happy about what you did.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Come on, we’ll take my Jeep to your car. Get the hell out of here before real trouble starts.”

  Denny climbed up high into Brig’s monster Jeep. “Thanks.”

  Brig frowned and turned the ignition. “Where’s your car?”

  “Go to the next street and turn right. But, Brig, I have to talk to you.”

  Brig laughed and pulled off. “Why? You gonna tell me I killed Rashida again? I don’t need to listen to that garbage.”

  “Nah. I just gotta...I just need to...”

  Brig looked over. “Spit it out.”

  “Brig, I’m starting to think they think I did it.”

  “The cops?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you thought I did it.”

  “Hey, I’ve been like crazy since this happened. I never told you but I still have dreams about Rashida being my wife. It’s wild, but yeah, it still seems like she’s my wife.” Denny took a deep breath and exhaled it. “Even now.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  Could he trust him? He thought about it. He believed what Orson had said about Brig—he was different around Denny than he was around others. Could Denny see Brig killing Rashida when they were together—absolutely not. But when they were apart? When Brig was wasted? When he was around the likes of Rufus Tucker? No, apart, Denny wasn’t sure what Brig was capable of. Trust him or not, though, he was sure the police would find out what Brig had to say about that night so he might as well find out too. “Brig, I can’t remember the night Rashida was killed.”

  “Hey, I can’t remember five minutes ago so what’s the worry about a couple of days?”

  Denny shook his head, the vibration from the Jeep’s knobby tires pulsating under his thighs. “I don’t mean, I can’t remember. I mean, just about the whole night is one big blank. Brig, I blacked out.”

  “Oh, that’s not good.”

  Denny nodded. Brig sounded sincerely concerned. “Yeah.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, for starters, I need you to tell me what happened. Where we were. What we did. When we did it.”

  “Dude, I was pretty lit that night myself.”

  “I know, but you didn’t black out, did you?”

  “No.”

  Denny sighed with relief.

  “But I can only help so much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brig shrugged. “All right, let me ask you this—what’s the last thing you do remember?”

  “I’d say after two or three of the tequila shots. I went out to smoke a cigarette.”

  “So you don’t remember going to Jammer’s Bar?”

  “Brig, I don’t remember anything after the cigarette.”

  “Well, we went to Jammer’s.”

  “Wait, wait, back up a second. What was I like at The Wild Bull after I came in from the cigarette?”

  Brig pulled up alongside Denny’s Camaro. “You really don’t remember?”

  “No, like I said, nothing after the cigarette. Can you park for a minute?” He pointed. “There’s a space up there.”

  Brig didn’t look happy but he complied. “Well, you kept saying you wanted to kill Frank Powell.” He glanced over. “And Rashida too.”

  “Oh, don’t say that!” First Orson, now Brig.

  “I’m sorry but you were ripping on her for being a whore for sleeping with Powell. I don’t know, you just all-around lost it. I tried to calm you down but you were like out of control.”

  Denny closed his eyes and breathed in. “Okay, so we left The Wild Bull and went to Jammer’s?”

  “Right.”

  “Who drove?”

  “I did.”

  “And what happened at Jammer’s?” Denny opened his eyes.

  “Wel
l, you kept insisting this super-hot bartender put Pearl Jam on the sound system, but she said the bar’s music was streamed and she couldn’t.”

  “Pearl Jam? I don’t even like them.”

  “Den, you were acting mega strange—even for you, even wasted. If I didn’t know you don’t do drugs, I would’ve thought you were on acid or something. So anyway, you wouldn’t let up, and the bartender eventually told the bouncers, and I had to keep them from beating you to a pulp because you were so belligerent when they kicked us out. But that’s all I know.”

  “What do you mean? Where’d we go after Jammer’s?”

  “We didn’t go anywhere. You insisted you were going to Rashida’s. You said you were sure Powell was there, screwing her. When I said you were insane and I wasn’t going, you just walked off.”

  “With no car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, if I’d gone to Rashida’s how would I have gotten there?”

  “I don’t know. You called a cab or Uber or something.”

  Denny bit his lip. “All right. So how did I get the scratches and the bump on the back of my head?”

  Brig shook his head. “Don’t know. That stuff didn’t happen when you were with me, though. I can tell you that much.”

  Denny tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. His chest tightened. He was practically hyperventilating. Finally, he managed, “And what time did I leave Jammer’s?”

  Brig tilted his head. “I’d say ten-thirty.”

  * * *

  Denny was stuck. It seemed nobody knew what he’d done the night Rashida was murdered. He climbed out of Brig’s Jeep and sat in his car in the cold. He was wrecked by what Brig told him. Saying he wanted to kill Rashida. Going to Jammer’s. And maybe Rashida’s. One thing, though, Brig had done no ‘egging on’ when Denny’d been raging about Powell and Rashida at The Wild Bull, like Orson claimed.

  Denny cracked his knuckles. He didn’t know what to do, where to go. Summer at least meant comfort. He really should marry her. She would be a good anchor to his storm-tossed ship. But—he sighed as he drove to her place—he’d never had the certainty with her he’d had with Rashida. And Rashida had always felt like his wife, even after the divorce, a fact not pleasing to Summer as it had come up not a few times, his once even calling her Rashida after sex.

  Still he could win Summer over. He thought anyway. When all this madness settled down he’d pay more attention to her. He wasn’t panicking but a lot of the available women were being snapped up, and a lot of guys, firemen especially, would’ve been more than too happy to take his place with Summer. All the visitor spaces in her complex’s lot were taken and he had to park out on the street. He didn’t call. If he’d called she might’ve said she had to get up early for work or some excuse. No, this was his best shot.

  He knocked on her door. She asked who it was and opened. She was in sweats. But stylish, clean-cut, sexy pink sweats. Oh, those perfect-sized breasts.

  She walked to him and pulled him into the condo, shut the door and took off his coat, his sweater, his belt, as she led him to her bedroom.

  Oh, yeah, this was definitely the right move. For once, things were going his way.

  * * *

  Denny woke the next morning before dawn, Summer entwined in his arms. Oh, he felt so comfortable but he had to get going—too much was at stake—so he wiggled out of her arms and dressed. Funny, he thought as he tip-toed through her living room on the way out, he never felt like spending the next day with her. The sex, yes. He was always up for that. But to spend the next day with her, he’d never done it. But yeah, today there was no question of staying. He had a powerful feeling if he didn’t act fast something bad was going to happen.

  He walked through the parking lot and down the street to his car. He wondered if he was seeing things. Someone had thrown a brick into his windshield. The brick was red and stuck in the windshield, the splintering glass splaying out. He stood frozen taking it all in. Who? Why? He thought about going back to Summer’s. He thought about calling a cab but no, he had to deal with this now. There was too much at stake to let this stop him from acting.

  He pulled the brick from the windshield and called his friend Ken. A mechanic, Ken, had all kinds of connections in the car business and got things done. Five minutes later Ken phoned back, saying he called in a favor, and some guys from a mobile glass company were on their way. Within twenty minutes an SUV and a step-van pulled up.

  Denny sat on the curb as two Mexican guys conversed in Spanish as they yanked his windshield and painted what looked like tar on the frame moldings before putting in a new windshield. Ken said he’d get a bill for him and give it to him later. Denny gave the guys a sawbuck tip each when they were done.

  He brushed stray bits of glass, they’d missed with the vacuum, from the seat. Who would’ve done this? Who would’ve even known he was there? What his car looked like?

  So many thoughts whirled through his mind as he drove home. It was all so messed up. The main suspect would have to be Rufus Tucker, the loudmouth he’d decked at The Wild Bull. Brig had warned him about the guy and his nasty friends, and if Brig warned you about somebody, it really meant something. But it was impossible. Oh sure, Tucker would’ve been pissed enough to do it, but he wouldn’t have known where Denny was, what he was doing, didn’t know his car. Unless...unless... There was only one way he could’ve known—if Brig followed Denny to Summer’s and called Tucker. But really that was crazy, as Brig was Denny’s only real friend.

  Whatever. Denny made a left onto his street. There was a second possibility. Somebody wasn’t happy he was at Summer’s. Denny knew he had the gift of inspiring jealousy. It seemed the true-blue straight-arrow-type guys saw him as a midnight rambler, as a back door man. He’d had his tires slashed before but that was with a different girlfriend.

  No, it had probably been Rufus Tucker, however he’d learned where he was. Denny made his way up the stairs to his apartment. Had to be him. But wait a minute. He stopped walking. He didn’t want to think the thought. He had to lean against the stairway wall. Wasn’t it possible it had been one of Rashida’s relatives? Her father and brothers had been pretty damn aggressive even after the remote-throwing incident. If they thought he killed her, who knew what they were capable of.

  * * *

  Denny showered at his apartment. Everybody had a time when their brains worked best and for Denny that time was in the shower. The water still stung a little hitting the scratches, and the bump on the back of his head was tender when he shampooed his hair, but the thoughts kept coming. They were really coming. Maybe too many thoughts. Thoughts like about Teddy.

  Teddy. Summer’s last lover was the one guy Denny hadn’t considered being the brick thrower.

  Summer used to work as a dispatcher in the police department, and being a genuinely hot blonde she pretty much had her pick of any cop on the force, but she fell for a bad-boy undercover cop named Teddy. Anyway, when they split, word was something really nasty had happened between them. Something so nasty it had gotten Summer to quit the police department, swear off cops for good, and she refused to ever talk about it.

  And Denny thought about Orson’s saying Brig had egged Denny on the night of Rashida’s murder. Brig would’ve never done that. He knew Denny had been married to Rashida, knew she was Muslim, and had never said anything but good things about her. So what was up with Orson? Orson, the smart guy. But also the guy who never fit in. Denny was done washing but let the hot shower stream pulse against his lower back.

  The thoughts kept coming. And the last one was a whopper—Denny needed to go see Frank Powell. Ugh. Maybe that thought had been a mistake? He waited. No such luck. It kept coming and coming. Powell was his last chance for knowing what happened the night Rashida was killed. But God, Denny didn’t want to go see him. Powell was a beast, one hell of a powerful guy. Which is probably why the chicks dug him. He frowned.

  Whatever. He got out of the shower and toweled off.

&
nbsp; He’d go see Powell.

  * * *

  Yeah, Powell was a beast. Just physically strong. Denny played softball with him over the summer on the firehouse team and the guy could power the ball out there like nothing else. He didn’t seem violent though but you didn’t want to find out if he ever would be. He owned a two-flat on Newland that he kept up nicely. Denny drove there.

  He didn’t know what he was going to say. ‘Did you kill Rashida?’ ‘Why are you such a sleazebag?’ ‘Uh, did you happen to see me the night Rashida was murdered?’ Yeah, however this played out it was going to be a mess. He checked his phone. 9:38 a.m. What the hell—he had to make something happen. He walked up the stairs to the first-floor door and rang the bell.

  Powell was no drunk, like not a few of the firemen. Oh, he’d come out with them now and then but his drug of choice was sex. So if he was home he should be awake.

  It took a while but eventually the door opened. A pretty blonde, her bangs hanging over half her face, in a red terrycloth bathrobe rubbed her eyes. “Yes?”

  “Uh, sorry to bother you, but is Frank here?”

  “Who are you?”

  Who are you? Denny wanted to ask. Powell’s latest sex toy? And so soon after Rashida’s death? The anger burned within him. “Just tell him Denny O’Callaghan from the firehouse. He knows who I am.”

  She rubbed her eyes some more. “Denny Gallagher?”

  “O’Callaghan!”

  She frowned and, leaving the door open, ambled away.

  Denny thought he shouldn’t have been so sharp with her, but whatever.

  Powell came to the door in gym shorts and a red Chicago Fire Dept. t-shirt. Denny was angry enough to kick his butt (if Powell hadn’t been such a beast), but he reminded himself he was there to find out what happened the night Rashida was murdered.

  “Powell.” Denny nodded.

  “What do you want, O’Callaghan?”