STEPHEN TILLMAN - DIVERGENT CONNECTIONS

Stephen Tillman is an emeritus professor of mathematics at Wilkes University. An avid reader of mysteries and science fiction, he has published stories in both genres. His fiction has appeared in a variety of journals, including Mysterical-E, Twisted Sister Lit Mag, Vinculinc, Scarlet Leaf Review, Aphelion, and Yellow Mama.

---

DIVERGENT CONNECTIONS
​

       Jodi Cinto stepped out of the hotel room shower and toweled herself off. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, and was satisfied with what she saw. No bulges in the wrong places, she thought. Even after three kids.
       Cinto went into the bedroom and started taking clothes out of her suitcase, being careful not to wake the woman in the next bed.  Her staggered mouth breathing had kept Cinto up most of the night.
       There was a knock on the door. Glancing at the bedside clock, Cinto saw it was 6:47 AM. “What the hell,” she muttered.
       She went to her companion and shook her gently awake. The woman gasped in pain, and opened her left eye to a slit. Her face was still too battered for her to open her right eye.
       “There’s someone at the door, Lindsey,” Cinto said softly. “Get on the floor beside the bed while I see who it is.”
       “Do you think it’s Jared?” Lindsey asked through her wired jaw, her fear pulling at the edges of her eyes.
       “Could be,” Cinto replied, glancing toward the door as another knock came.
       “Who is it?” Cinto called, while Lindsey crawled out of bed and lay on the floor.
       “Hotel maintenance,” a muffled voice said. “There’s a leak from your room to the room below. We need to check it out.”
       “Just a minute. I’m not dressed.”
       Quickly pulling on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, Cinto put on the room lights and grabbed her Glock. Then taking the ironing board from the closet, she went to the door. Laying on the floor against the entranceway wall, she pushed the ironing board up so that it cast a shadow over the peephole. As soon as the peephole was darkened, a fusillade of shots came through the door right where she would’ve been had she been peering through. The bullets passed over her head, blasting the ironing board from her hands. The door was kicked open and a man burst in carrying a smoking submachine gun. Looking past her into the room, he didn’t notice Cinto at his feet.
       Figuring that he might be wearing body armor, Cinto shot him in the groin. He doubled over screaming in pain, and with his face right above hers, she shot him between the eyes. He fell backwards into a second man, causing the other to fire wildly into the ceiling. Cinto shot the other man twice in the head, hoping neither her shots nor those of her attacker hit anyone on the floor above.
                                                                       ***
       After a seemingly interminable session with the police, Cinto was allowed to leave. It probably would’ve been worse had she not been a former NYPD detective.
       “Those guys were Jared’s two youngest sons,” Lindsey said, as she hobbled after Cinto. “He’s determined to kill me. Should I just run away?”
       “Not a good idea,” Isadore Feinstein, Lindsey’s lawyer, said. “The bright side of this attack is that it weakens the case against you. A lot. The prosecution just offered to reduce the charge to voluntary manslaughter, and they’ll only ask for five to ten. You’d be eligible for parole after three, and they said they won’t fight it. But, if you want to plead, I’m sure I could get them down to involuntary manslaughter, two to five. You’d be out in less than a year.”
       “Izzy’s your attorney and you should listen to his advice,” Cinto said, hailing a cab. “But if it were up to me, I wouldn’t take a plea deal.”
       “What do you think?” Lindsey asked Feinstein. “I did shoot Gil. While he was asleep.”
       “After he beat the shit out of you,” Cinto reminded her, reaching for the door as a taxi glided up to them. “For the umpteenth time. He deserved whatever he got.”
       “Let’s discuss it after we get to my office,” Feinstein said, as they climbed into the cab. “By the way, since Jodi’s my chief investigator, I need her to look into Gil’s pattern of abuse.”
       “Then who’s gonna protect me from Jared?” Lindsey asked in a panicky voice.
       “I’ve hired a security guard,” Feinstein said.
                                                                       ***
       As the three entered Feinstein’s office, Cinto was surprised to see Mendez, her partner when she’d been with the NYPD. Seeing him for the first time in more than two years, she felt an almost visceral sensation run through her body. She hadn’t been with a man since her husband was killed. She and Mendez had always had a connection that she could never shake or deny, but while the two were partners, she’d made sure their relationship was strictly professional. The two hugged.
       “Moonlighting?” she asked him.
       “I left the job about a year ago,” Mendez said. “Alimony was killing me. It wasn’t the same without you anyway, so when SF Security offered me this position with more money, I took it. Then my ex remarried, so no more alimony. Go figure.”
       “The money was a good reason why I left,” Cinto said, with a wry smile. “But primarily, after Joe was killed in that crash, I wanted a job where there was less chance my kids would become orphans.”
       “Then you got involved in a shootout,” Mendez said, with a grin.
       “Yeah, well,” Cinto said, shrugging.
       “Why shouldn’t I take the plea deal if I’ll be free in less than a year?” Lindsey asked, as all four took seats in Feinstein’s conference room.”
       “A couple of reasons,” Cinto stated. Holding up one finger, she said, “You asked if you should run away. Since you’re under indictment, that’d make you a fugitive. If, or I should say when, you’re caught, you’d go away for a long time. If you took a plea deal and were out in, say, eight months, you’d be on parole. Your movements would be restricted. You still couldn’t run. Your mobster father-in-law wants you dead. This morning he lost two more sons. Your fault, in his mind. How long do you think you’d last staying at home?”
       “So you think I should just go to prison and stay there?” Lindsey asked, tears in her eyes.
       “Not at all,” Cinto said, a grim smile on her face. Holding up a second finger, she said, “You have one of the top defense attorneys in the country. If he gets you acquitted, you’d be free. You could run away. Or, if you prefer, since you’d then be able to inherit Gil’s money, you could hire full-time security.”
       “Do you think you could get me acquitted?” Lindsey asked Feinstein.
       “Highly likely,” Feinstein said, a feral grin on his face.
                                                                   ***
       It was fully dark outside. Mendez, another security man named Glastok, Feinstein, and Cinto were sitting in Lindsey’s living room as Lindsey fluttered in and out of her bedroom, packing clothes, anxious to get out of town. At least for a while.
       The long, arduous trial had just concluded. Thanks in no small part to Cinto finding multiple incidents of Lindsey’s late husband acting abusively toward women, the jury, that afternoon, had returned a verdict of “Not Guilty.” A celebratory drink was in order, but care had to be taken. Jared had not reacted well to the verdict.
       Feinstein had just raised his glass when Mendez said, “I see movement outside.”
       They all turned toward the front. Suddenly there was a blast, shattering one of the windows. A hand grenade came through the opening and rolled to the center of the floor.
       Mendez grabbed an armchair and dived on top of the grenade, covering it with the belly of the chair. The grenade exploded, throwing Mendez against the back wall. He was stunned, but alive. His quick action prevented further injury from the shrapnel and the force of the explosion. All the lights went out.
       “Everyone down!” Glastok screamed.
       Cinto, from the floor, grabbed Mendez’ foot and pulled him into a prone position, just as the house was raked with bullets. The onslaught seemed to last forever, but in fact was over in about a minute, all the shots passing over their heads.
       “You okay?” Cinto asked Mendez.
       “Yeah, I’m good,” he wheezed, shaking his head and struggling to sit up.
       “Glastok, take the front!” Cinto ordered. “The door won’t be easy, so we’ve got a few seconds. Watch these windows. Mendez, come with me. I hear them trying to break in the back. Izzy, Lindsey, head for the basement.”
       Glastok tipped over a couch and took a position behind it, raising an Uzi. Using ambient light from outside and staying down, Feinstein and Lindsey headed for the door leading to the basement. Cinto and Mendez dashed to the kitchen. They could make out people trying to breach the backdoor.
       “Get behind that counter,” Cinto said, in a low voice, directing him to the spot. “As soon as they break in, shoot. The doorway’s too narrow for all of them to come in at once.”
       “What are you going to be doing?” Mendez whispered, as he took his position.
       “There’s a small window on the top shelf of the pantry,” Cinto said, pointing toward the pantry door. “It looks out on the back entranceway. I think I can get a couple of them from there.”
       Keeping low, she scurried to the door, entered the pantry, and started climbing.
       The backdoor burst open and a man ran in with another right behind him. Mendez opened up with his Uzi. The first man fell back into the guy behind him, screaming in pain. The second one fired wildly, as he was knocked back outside.
       Cinto, from the pantry window, saw men trying to get into the house. She opened fire with her Glock, emptying the fifteen round magazine, and then jumped down to the floor, just before return shots hit where she’d been. She ejected the empty magazine and slammed in a full one. After a few seconds no more shots were coming in, so she climbed back up and peered through the window. The outside storm door hung open by a hinge. A man lay sprawled on the ground, and she could make out two others racing away, one of whom was limping badly.
       Descending again to the floor, she looked around the door of the pantry. A man lay motionless on the floor, half into the kitchen, preventing the inside door from closing. Mendez was inserting a fresh magazine into his Uzi. Shots could be heard coming from the front.
       “You okay?” Cinto asked.
       “Fine,” Mendez replied, looking toward the front.
       “The assholes back here are toast,” Cinto said. “Let’s see if Glastok needs any help.”
       Just as Cinto and Mendez reached the front of the house, the front door burst open and two men started to enter, firing at the couch behind which Glastok was crouched. Cinto shot the first one and Mendez the other. A third man appeared in the doorway, and Cinto took care of him.
       Hearing a primordial scream coming from outside, Cinto crawled to the window and peeked over the sill. Jared was standing up blasting the house with a submachine gun. She took careful aim and put two slugs into his head.
       “Got him!” Cinto said with a grin, which faded as she turned and saw Mendez slumped down, the right side of his shirt covered in blood.
       “Mendez!” she yelled, running over and taking him in her arms.
       “Not too bad,” he said in a weak voice. “Got me in the arm. You’re bleeding.” He kissed her on the mouth and passed out.
                                                                           ***
       A week after the battle, Cinto was back home with her children. The front doorbell rang. Mendez was there. His right arm was in a sling, and he was holding the hand of a young girl with his left. The girl looked to be about eleven or twelve years old. Cinto stepped back so they could enter. She started to hug him, and he winced.
       “Cracked rib,” he said.
       She gently wrapped her right arm around him, put her head on his shoulder, and felt her eyes starting to well up.
       “I was so worried about you,” Cinto said, wiping her eyes. “I’ve thought about you a lot over the last couple of years.”
       “How are you doing?” he asked, a pleased expression on his face. “Last time I saw you, you were bleeding.”
       “Just minor cuts and bruises. Flying glass. You’re the one who got shot and took the brunt of the grenade blast.”
       “I’m fine,” he said with a grin. “Could be worse. Convalescent leave with pay. Be out of action for a while, but full recovery expected. Any repercussions for you?”
       “Naw. Clearly self-defense. Jared’s not the kind of guy the cops mourn. With him out of the picture, Lindsey’s home free. Jared and his kids are gone, so the rest of the mob doesn’t give a crap about her. Turns out, for tax reasons, Gil put most of his assets in her name. She’ll also get a good chunk of Jared’s estate. Feinstein got a nice payday, and I got a bonus. Who’s your friend?”
       “Let me introduce you to my daughter, Selena,” Mendez said, turning to the girl beside him. “Selena, this is Ms. Cinto.”
       “I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Cinto,” Selena said, holding out her hand.
       “Happy to meet you too, Selena, but you can call me Jodi,” Cinto said, shaking the girl’s hand. Then pointing to the three children behind her, she said, “These are my kids. Joey, Marty, and Marissa.”
       Selena waved to the other kids, and they waved back. Then she said solemnly, “Daddy keeps talking about you. Are you going to be my stepmom? I don’t like my stepdad. He yells at me all the time for no reason.”
            Mendez blushed and started to say something, but couldn’t think of the right words. Cinto grinned and hugged him again. “We’ll see how it plays out,” she said, knowing the odds of a stable relationship were slim in her field. Knowing the next case Feinstein took might be even more dangerous than the last. Wishing she ​wasn’t looking forward to it.