Crash Landing

This story is the sixth in the timeline of thirteen Max Pemberton detective stories. You're encouraged to read the stories preceding this one to give you additional background, though this story can stand on its own.

Many thanks to migbird for acting as my muse on this journey.

Here's the chronological breakdown of Max's stories:

Maelstrom

Deception

Blindsided

Jackknifed

Tailspin

Crash Landing

Cold Steel (although in the middle of the series, this story was written first, followed by Hot Steel)

Hot Steel

Pink Ice

Betrayal

Loss of Innocence

Revenge is Best Served Cold

To Hell ... And Back

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.

Chapter One

The Sky is Falling

"Wait!" my partner Lesley called out to me as she chased me. "Don't do this Max!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. Her pleas were falling on deaf ears.

We had been on a routine patrol in the commercial district of Cincinnati's notorious West End. Shoppers teemed the busy thoroughfare, with its collection of cut-price shops and fast food restaurants. I had bolted out of our cruiser and was running flat out after Minh Tran, who I not so affectionately called "Mr. Tattoo." Minh was a henchman of DaVanna Caruso, who was shaking down my best friend, Maddy Bailey, for money, and accidentally (or purposely) shoved her down a flight of stairs, breaking her neck and killing her. Minh was casually strolling down the sidewalk when I spotted him. I barked to Lesley to pull over and make an emergency stop.

He was a burly guy with a pockmarked face and a colorful tattoo of a dragon wrapped around his right forearm. We'd tangled twice before, once with him beating the shit out of me and the other with me giving him a paralyzing swift kick to the balls. He was well aware of my vendetta against him and was huffing and puffing down the street, knocking people out of the way like bowling pins. I followed in his wake, eventually catching up to him after chasing him for a block. Lesley was sprinting to try to catch me.

I tackled him in front of a hardware store, with us both crashing to the pavement. He took the brunt of the fall, getting a nasty road rash on his face. We knocked over a display of garden shovels and one fell within my reach. I grabbed the handle near the business end of the spade and was about to smash the back of his head in. Luckily, Lesley grabbed my arm before I could finish him off.

"Let me go!" I bellowed at her, blinded by rage. I'd forgotten I was a police officer. I was only thinking about exacting revenge for my best friend's death. Lesley put me in a headlock and bulldogged me off Minh.

"Max, you're going to kill him! Max!!" she hollered, trying to jar me to my senses.

I was flush with adrenaline and had murder in my eyes. I raised my hand to hit Lesley with the shovel before I knew what I was doing. Then my mind cleared and I realized I was about to make a terrible mistake. I dropped the shovel and heard the metal clang on the concrete as I slumped to the sidewalk, exhausted. Minh was groaning and struggling to get to his feet. I pulled my nightstick out of its holder and whacked him in his midsection as a parting gift.

"Ohhhh," he moaned. I think I cracked at least one of his ribs. He clutched his side and labored to get to his feet. Gawkers had gathered around us, some with phones recording the incident.

"Let him go," said Lesley in a calm voice. "We'll get him the right way, not like this."

Thank God Lesley kept her cool and was a fast runner. She saved me from a long prison sentence. I was still breathing fast as she lifted me to my feet.

"C'mon Max," she told me. "Let's go get a cup of coffee."

* * *

My mind was racing as Lesley drove us to Happy Donut, a West End institution, and our usual first stop in the morning. It was almost noon, and the usually bustling shop was empty. One of the owners, Binh, who was affectionately known as Bea, was making a fresh pot of coffee while her husband Nguyen leaned against a faded pink Formica countertop reading a Vietnamese newspaper.

I didn't give my usual cheery greeting as we sat down at a small round table.

"Coffee please Bea," Lesley said to her.

Nguyen lowered his newspaper to see who had come in, and then raised it back up when he recognized our faces.

Bea came over with the freshly brewed pot and two cups. She glanced at me before speaking to Lesley.

"Max no look so good," she said to my partner, shaking her head.

"No, she doesn't," said Lesley. "She needs to settle down."

Bea took my hand in hers. "So sorry about your friend Maddy."

"Thanks Bea," I said. The familiar surroundings and Bea's tender words helped my blood pressure drop to normal.

"You good person Max. You get past this," she assured me in a soothing voice.

"I don't know Bea," I said forlornly. "I'm not sure I'll ever get past it." Minh was forgotten and the sense of loss I had been feeling since Maddy died came front of mind.

I took a sip of the piping hot coffee. It warmed my aching heart.

"Max, we'll get through this together," said Lesley. "Just like you helped me."

I'd helped Lesley kick a nasty Oxy addiction she picked up after she was shot in the line of duty. It did me good to know she had my back.

We took our time finishing our coffee. By the time we left I'd calmed down. Lesley knew how to handle me.

"C'mon partner," she said to me. "We'll sign you out at the station and then I'll take you home."

* * *

"Home" was room 204 of the Royal Palms Motel. There was nothing "Royal" about the place and there was nary a palm tree on the premises, except one in neon on the gaudy sign in front. It was a dump located in the heart of the West End. My neighbors were prostitutes and drug addicts.

Even though I was down, Lesley couldn't resist taking another run at moving me out of the sleazy motel.

"Please Max," she said as we pulled into the parking lot. "Let me help find you another place."

"I like it here," I said, like a broken record.

"You're living like a bum."

"I am a bum," I said. "I belong here. I'm with my people."

"Fine, fine," she said, disgusted. "I'm not going to ask you again."

"Please don't," I said. My pixie cute blonde partner could be a nag, but her heart was in the right place.

She motioned to the passenger door.

"If you're going to be in one of these moods I think it's time for you to leave."

I was in one of those moods. I left without us exchanging another word.

* * *

I stewed in my small motel room for the afternoon, eating junk food, watching Seinfeld re-runs, and generally feeling sorry for myself. There was still a veil of sadness hanging over me from Maddy's untimely death. Maddy was my best friend. She was murdered during an attempt to extort money from her. I still couldn't believe she was dead. The person who blackmailed Maddy, DaVanna Caruso, ostensibly committed suicide, but I knew it was Lily Chao who engineered her death. Lily was DaVanna's lover, but also controlled the drug trade in the West End. DaVanna's unhinged behavior was attracting too much unwanted attention and had become a liability who needed to be taken off the books. Lily was a tidy bookkeeper.

As a chronic drinker, I tried to dissuade myself from visiting the local liquor store to quell the pain I was feeling, but I lost the argument. It was getting dark outside, and the darkness reminded that I was alone, truly alone.

I drove my trusty Honda Civic to the liquor store, a sad looking concrete block structure painted white, with an oversized neon "LIQUOR" sign in the front window that served as a beacon in the night to lushes like me. My good buddy Nigel was manning the back counter when I walked in. He was a transplanted Brit I'd gotten hooked on baseball and was diligently watching the beginning of a night game in Atlanta. The Reds were on an uncharacteristic hot streak, and Nigel was fully invested in the team.

"What's the score?" I asked him, more to make small talk then out of interest. Baseball and everything else had lost its luster after Maddy died. He had a small monitor on the counter. His eyeballs never left the screen.

"2-0 Reds, top of the second," he answered. "Brandon Phillips is up and they have runners on second and third."

"Selling liquor these days, or just dispensing baseball updates?" I asked him, eager to get my drink on.

He looked up at me. "It's your fault for introducing me to American baseball. Now I can't stop watching it."

"You know more about the Reds than I do," I said.

"So the usual flavored vodka rubbish?" he asked me.

"Uh huh," I said. I thought my taste buds had died, so it didn't matter what I drank. The destination was all that mattered, which was a drunken stupor.

"I'm amazed you drink this crap on a consistent basis," he said, bagging up two bottles of coffee flavored vodka.

"You quite the salesman, Nigel," I quipped.

"I don't have to be with you. You'll drink anything."

"True."

He rang it up. I gave him a credit card and he gave me the bag and then the receipt.

"Seems like on a police detective's salary you'd be able to afford a better quality beverage," he mused.

"I'm saving for my Ferrari. I've only got another $170,000 to go."

He laughed. "Max, you crack me up."

* * *

Back to the Royal Palms with two bottles in hand. It's all I cared about. Somebody had parked in my usual spot by the pool. I grumbled and found another space nearby. A man and a woman were having a spirited argument not far from me by the motel's large neon sign. I recognized the woman, Sharon, a local prostitute, which meant the man she was arguing with was one of her "customers." I watched as the man grabbed a handful of Sharon's bottle blonde hair.

Sharon had helped me bust Bobby Bickel. Bobby was the supervisor over my girlfriend (soon to be ex?) Sky, who was a member of his Homicide squad. Bobby put his fat, stubby fingers in Sky's honeypot, which necessitated me making Bobby very (very) sorry he laid hands on her. Sharon and one of her very young looking buddies (with a fake ID saying she was fourteen) made Bobby think he was having sex with a minor. Bobby ended up taking an early retirement and getting the fuck out of Dodge [ed. note, see Tailspin].

I didn't like seeing men abusing women, and I owed Sharon.

"Hey . . . fucknuts . . . hands off," I yelled at the man. They were about ten feet from me, but I was closing quickly on them.

He still had hold of Sharon's hair when he yelled "Fuck off bitch!" to me.

I wasn't in the mood to take shit from a lowlife like him (though he was wearing what looked like an expensive suit). He was shorter than me, and rotund. I snatched his necktie in my fist and lifted upwards so he was standing on his tippy toes in his shiny wingtip shoes.

"Care to repeat that?" I asked him, my face no more than six inches from his. He smelled of some cheesy men's body wash. There was terror in his eyes. I'm sure there was fire in mine.

"I was just having some fun," he protested. He was just some short, fat, overweight businessman with a fragile ego. I decided to take him down a notch. I took hold of a clump of his thinning hair and pulled hard, just like what he was doing to Sharon.

"Ouch . . . motherfucker . . . that hurt!" he screamed, just like the little girl he was.

I shook him a couple times and then pushed him away.

"You find me if you want to get rough with a woman." I pointed to room 204 on the second floor. "That's where you can find me."

Sharon was standing to the side, wide eyed. I kicked the man in the ass with my boot, lifting him a couple inches off the ground.

"Now you fuck off," I told him.

The man rubbed his flabby butt with his hand, smoothed his disheveled hair and scampered off.

"Thanks Max," Sharon said to me. "Now I owe you again."

"You just be careful Sharon," I told her.

She kissed me on the cheek.

Even when in the dumps, I was still Max, protector of women.

* * *

I got to my room with two bottles in hand and the determination to get drunk as quickly as possible. If there was North Star in my life, it was my ability to fuck up everything that was good in my life.

My latest fuck-up was stepping out on Sky. I didn't consider myself a philanderer, but I had sex with Lily Chao when I knew I was being unfaithful to Sky. Most wouldn't fault me for at least having a wandering eye when it came to Lily. She was an attractive Asian woman who happened to run the largest drug operation in the West End. She was highly intelligent, cunning, and outrageously sexy. I will freely admit I put up little, if any, resistance to her advances. I still hadn't sworn off Lily forever.

I hadn't seen Sky since my moment (maybe it was more like an hour) of weakness. The time for atonement was the next evening, our standing Wednesday night date at Bailey's. Bailey's was an upscale bar in a trendy neighborhood in Cincinnati, and was recently reopened by Candy Bailey, the younger sister of the recently deceased Maddy Bailey.

There were no words I could utter that could save my relationship with Sky, and there was no bringing back my best friend. My only salvation was the bottle, and that salvation was only an illusory redemption.

Usually the sounds of the night at the Royal Palms were a mere annoyance - - the shouting, the fighting, and the occasional gun shot. But that evening each noise made my skin prickle, and I felt a restlessness I couldn't shake. I scoured the top of my dresser for a clean plastic cup, finding only one with the remnants of vodka I'd drunk the previous night. I twisted off the cap on a fresh bottle and poured a healthy amount in the glass, eagerly raising it to my lips to quench the thirst of loneliness and despair.

One drink became two, and before I realized it the first bottle was empty. My eyes felt heavy, but the hurt I felt inside was still throbbing. I opened the second bottle and was about to fill my cup when I heard a knock on my door. I checked my watch. It was 11 p.m. Maybe it was the guy I'd roughed up earlier than evening. I picked up my sidearm and peered through the peephole.

Fuck . . . it was Sky.

I had no choice but to open the door, though I was thoroughly unprepared to receive her. She was wearing her favorite Lululemon yoga pants and a hoodie, indicating she left her apartment on the spur of the moment.

She pushed her way into my room, angry. "Max . . . where the fuck have you been?"

"What?" I asked, fighting the fog created by the cheap booze.

"I've tried calling and texting you all day."

I pulled my phone out of my back pocket. It didn't even power up. The battery was dead as a doornail. I showed it to her as somehow proving my negligence was excusable. It wasn't.

"Figures," she said. "God Max, you look like shit and you're drunk."

"Not as drunk as I'm going to be," I said, pointing to the new bottle.

"Maddy?"

"Uh huh . . ." I grunted. With alcohol impaired judgment I added, "and something else."

"Before we get to the something else, I wanted to tell you I got the promotion! Meet Skylar Hobson, Detective, Second Grade." Her face brightened. That's why she was dying to see me.

I never told Sky that one of the conditions for me not ratting out Bobby was that Sky got her well-deserved promotion. Bobby must have put in the papers before he retired.

"That's great Sky, congratulations. I'm glad that scumbag Bobby did the right thing."

"Yeah, I'm kind of surprised. He harassed me and somehow he did the right thing and promoted me? I'm happy, but it doesn't make sense. You didn't happen to have anything to do with this, did you?"

Sky was a detective, and a good one. I should have known she'd figure out I had something to do with this.

"Maybe just a little shove," I said. "But you know you deserved the promotion. That prick wasn't going to give it to you, just because you were a woman."

"I know," said Sky, "and I love you even more for standing up for me." She kissed me on the cheek.

Fuck. This was only going to make it harder.

"So Max, what's this 'other thing' you wanted to tell me?"

Double fuck. I was having a hard time focusing and my girlfriend was waiting for the truth. There was nothing to be gained by waiting so I decided to spit it out.

"Sky, I was unfaithful to you."

It clearly wasn't what she expected to hear.

It was as if all the air left her body. She sat on the bed and looked up at me, the joy that was on her face completely gone.

"Max . . . really?"

"I'm sorry Sky."

"Who? . . . When?" she stammered. I could see tears welling up in her eyes.

"It was Lily . . ." I started to say.

"Lily Chao?" she said, incredulous and deeply hurt. "Tell me it's not true. Lily's a ruthless criminal. I thought you were a woman of principle. I looked up to you."

There were no words to explain my behavior. None.

"I'm sorry," I said again. What else could I say?

I felt like I had crashed and burned. The flaming wreckage of our relationship littered the ground.

"So . . . so . . . this is goodbye? You don't love me?" She started sobbing. I sat down next to her to comfort her.

"Don't touch me!" she said angrily.

"I do . . . I do love you," I protested.

Her eyes burned with an intensity I'd hadn't seen before. "You have a fucked up way of showing it."

"I'm so sorry. I fuck up everything I touch," I confessed. "I didn't mean to do it."

"But you did," said Sky. "Having sex with someone else isn't done lightly . . . even for you."

That last remark cut deep.

"Sky . . . I'll do anything to make this right . . . anything," I said blindly and out of desperation.

"Anything?"

I was pot committed. "Yes, anything."

"Then tell me it isn't true."

If I did, she would know it was a lie. I sat there dumbstruck and drunk.

Sky got up and started walking out.

"You're going?" I asked.

"Past time to go."

"What about us?"

"There is no us," she said flatly,

"But . . ."

"Goodbye Max."

She slammed the door behind her. The sound it made was the sound of finality.

Christ's sake, couldn't I do anything right?

I heard the other bottle call my name. I had good and truly fucked up my life. I finished the bottle and fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Two

Turf War

The sun does come up the next morning, no matter what. I tried to ignore it, but its persistent brightness through the paper thin curtains made me lie awake in bed. Somehow the sunshine made it better, and come hell or high water I still had to work to make a living. I forced myself to get up, shower and dress. I got to the station fifteen minutes early, enough time to change into my uniform and check out my cruiser. Lesley was dressed and waiting for me in the break room.

"You look like shit," she said. I had dark circles under my eyes. I don't think I had more than an hour of restless sleep.

"Sky broke up with me last night."

"No shit."

"No shit."

"What'd you do this time to fuck it up?" she asked.

"That's not very supportive," I said, trying to sound indignant.

"Sorry, but I know you. What did you do this time?"

Did I want to tell her? I didn't think this was the right place.

"Let's talk once we get into the car."

"That bad?"

"Lesley, give me a fucking break, OK?"