Fixit

Book 0: An IQ Novel

by Joe Ide

Genres: African American Mystery & Detective; Private Investigators; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

In this sixth installment in the critically acclaimed and beloved series, IQ must rescue Grace from a maniacal hitman who bears a bone-deep grudge against him

Isaiah Quintabe’s first love, Grace, has been kidnapped by his sworn enemy, the professional hitman Skip Hanson. Skip is savage and psychotic, determined to punish Isaiah for sending him to prison and destroying his life. Isaiah and his sometimes partner, ex-hustler Juanell Dodson, together again, must track scant clues through L.A.’s perilous landscape as Grace’s predicament grows more uncertain.

A complication arises in the form of Winnie Hando, a homicide detective with something to prove. Stubborn and effective, Winnie sees Isaiah’s efforts as an obstruction to the investigation and a possible embarrassment: an unlicensed PI can’t be seen doing the department’s job better than the department. Winnie tries to stop Isaiah while pursuing the case herself, each hindering the other’s progress. As the desperate hunt winds on, Isaiah fears that even if he can bring Grace home alive, things between them will never be the same. This latest series installment is an explosive collision of larger-than-life characters, shotguns, vicious dogs, stampeding horses, and Ide’s signature energy, grit, and profundity.  

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 336

Sample

Prologue

Grace arrived at the food truck midmorning. She put on a hairnet and an apron and set about prepping for the lunch crowd. Deronda’s Downhome Buttermilk Fried Chicken would soon be mobbed. Grace was aware, but not aware, of what she was doing, soaking the chicken pieces in buttermilk, dredging them in the dry ingredients and setting them on the rack to dry. She chopped up the collard greens, fried the fatback and onions and put the stock on to boil. Odeal came in, huffing, groaning, the three steps taxing her weight and her wind. Her grandson Lester brought in the casserole dishes. Grace usually looked forward to it, lifting the tinfoil, revealing the world’s best mac and cheese, the top crust golden, the molten mix of cheeses still bubbling. The smells were usually comforting, even heartening, but she was far away, staring into the deep fryer, the first bubbles plinking as they emerged through the amber oil.

“You all right, Grace?” Odeal said. “You don’t look well, baby. You comin’ down with something?”

“No, no, I’m okay,” Grace said. “Not enough sleep, that’s all.”

“I hope you not out there carousin’, young lady,” Odeal said, only half joking.

“Not me. I’m a homebody.”

Grace busied herself, trying and failing not to think. A few days ago, she broke up with Isaiah, the hurt like a stab wound, bleeding into the void left in his wake. She did it on the phone too. Impersonal, like she was canceling a magazine subscription. Ending their love deserved better than a voice from a cell tower. Isaiah was in Northern California somewhere, unwilling or unable to meet her because he was in another mess. He didn’t tell her the specifics; his way of “sparing her” from yet another human goulash of suffering and grief. She couldn’t take it, being with a man who invited violence because he couldn’t resist risking his life for every victimized person he met. Everyone in the hood knew his rep. The underground PI who helped you find justice when the police wouldn’t or couldn’t. His cases covered the range of human depravity. He brought down rapists, armed robbers, kidnappers, drug lords, gunrunners, gangsters, con men, thieves, hired killers and pedophiles. Along the way he’d made enemies.

The waiting wore Grace down. For Isaiah to come home, or not come home, wondering what morally compromising, soul-crushing decisions he had to make, or imagining what subhuman cave dweller was swinging at him with a meat cleaver. Grace wasn’t naive, she didn’t demand tranquility. She wanted to grow as an artist in relative calm, like anyone making their way. If they were a couple, his enemies would be her enemies. She’d be at risk, a target. That was why he didn’t ask her to go with him when he left. He wanted her to have peace, be safe. He was Isaiah, after all.

Grace had gone her own way since she was a kid. She was a loner, a misfit, eschewing pop culture for something more meaningful, always with a pencil or a paintbrush in her hand. She didn’t know what she wanted in a man until she met Isaiah. Kind, compassionate, loving in his quiet, unobtrusive way, immeasurably competent, and courageous as the three hundred Spartans. But life with him was so dangerous, so fraught with evil it was, or seemed to be, intolerable.

All she wanted now was something resembling ordinary. There were takers everywhere. Looking for a man? Put on a hairnet, wear no makeup and a shapeless apron, be entirely indifferent to whoever you’re talking to and you’ll be hit on by every lonely guy in LA. She was saying things to herself like It’s no one’s fault, it wasn’t meant to be, you’re better off without him, things happen for a reason and a bunch of other fucked-up, nonsensical, bullshit clichés, none of which made one fucking iota of sense.

She missed Isaiah. Every day, all the time. She couldn’t have spent more energy thinking about him if he were here. Neither ever said, “I love you,” because it didn’t matter. Why say something you knew to be true? Why say something that was so obvious it was etched into your retinas? They’d never talked about marriage and they probably never would. Commitment was supposedly a decision. With Isaiah, it was genetic; indelible, like the color of your skin. Call him, Grace. Call him now. What are you waiting for? Do you think Isaiahs grow on trees? She resisted. If you were Isaiah, how would you feel? Overjoyed because some fickle artist says she’ll cut you a break? Save yourself the effort, Grace. You’ve lost him once and for all.

She was on edge the whole afternoon; angry at herself and the world that kept her apart from Isaiah. Be a grown-up, Grace. No tantrums today.

A bearded man came to the window. Faded T-shirt, pinched face and cadaverous, all ribs, clavicles and elbows. He looked like an unpublished poet.

“What can I get for you?” Grace said.

“Is your chicken non-GMO?” he asked.

“No, it’s not,” she said. A proselytizer. Cut him short, Grace. “Have you decided? You’ve got a line behind you.”

“If your chicken is not no-GMO you should put it on your sign,” he said indignantly. Why do all the assholes end up in this line? she wondered. She felt her temper coming on, like the creaking of a doorknob.

“You mean we should put ‘We buy our chicken at Vons’ on the sign?” she said. “I’ll speak to the management. Could you please order?”

“What kind of oil do you use?” he demanded.

“Pennzoil, 10W-30,” she said. “Come on, dude, this is a food truck, not your guru’s gluten-free commune. Order or get out of line.” The doorknob was turning.

“I’m a consumer. I have the right to say what I think!” the man shouted. He turned to the people in line. “I’d like you all to know, their chicken contains dangerous hormones!” In return he got a chorus of boos and fuck yous. The anger door swung open.

“That’s it, asshole!” Grace shouted. She was about to lunge through the window and stab this moron with a plastic fork, but a heavyset Black man in a postal uniform shoved the guy out of line.

“People are hungry, boy. Go home and make your own chicken!”

There was a round of applause and Grace joined in. She went back to work. After serving the postal worker, she realized she felt different. High emotion triggered high emotion, and there was nothing more emotional than her feelings for Isaiah. What’s your problem, Grace? Isaiah’s not worth fighting for? You’re afraid he’ll reject you? The risk is too great? I’ve got news for you, girl. Love is risk.

She told Odeal she was leaving early and drove home, anxious and eager, her heart bumping, damp palms choking the life out of the steering wheel. First thing she’d do was fix her hair, put on a little lip gloss and fresh clothes—ridiculous for a phone call but she’d feel better. Where should she be when she made this momentous call? There was the chaise in the backyard or the easy chair in the living room but neither felt right. Maybe in bed. Yes, that was it. Talk to your man while you’re in bed.

She parked the battered jeep in the driveway, turned off the engine and lifted the door handle. Skip surprised her as she got out of the car, saying her name like he was spitting, gleeful when he hit her in the gut, the breath ripped out of her throat, the pain erupting, doubling her over. The hitman cackled as she fell to her knees. The last thing she saw before the sky went dark was a dog collar hanging around his neck; chrome-plated, shiny and spiked.

Chapter One

Isaiah was a patient at the Coronado Springs Hospital, five hundred miles away from East Long Beach and home. He was recovering from injuries he’d sustained during a case—a case he didn’t want, need or ask for. To compound his troubles, he was suffering from PTSD. A lifetime of violence, tragedy and suffering had ruined him; his body depleted, his psyche shattered, his emotional self a charred wreck. He was tortured by nightmares and wracked with horrifying flashbacks. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t stay awake, every thought a tirade of self-loathing, doubt and pity. The idea of another case repulsed him. He didn’t want to be IQ anymore. He didn’t want to make a difference. He wanted to be nobody. He wanted Grace.

He was in this condition when he met a young man named Billy Sorenson, an escapee from the local neuropsychiatric ward. Isaiah came back to his cottage one day to find Billy stealing food from his kitchen. He was in a pathetic state; scared, on the run and friendless. Billy believed a serial killer named William Crowe was coming to Coronado Springs. Crowe’s presumed intention was to murder someone, identity unknown. According to Billy, Crowe was the infamous AMSAK killer, so called by the press because he disposed of his seventeen victims at the convergence of the American and Sacramento Rivers. Crowe was on a nine-year killing spree and the police had yet to identify him. Billy wanted help bringing him down.

Isaiah soon learned Billy was not a reliable source. He was an alarmist and had a history of making up stories and crying wolf. The whole town knew about him. Isaiah wanted no part of it. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d vowed to stay away from. No more falling into the sewer with the filth and the vermin, covered in the blood and sludge, never to be clean again. He told Billy no.

He told himself he’d take a look. That was all. Isaiah interrogated Billy at length. He laboriously checked the kid’s story and went through a raft of police and FBI computer files Billy downloaded from his mother’s laptop. She was an assistant district attorney. Isaiah carefully examined the data, reluctantly concluding Billy’s story was true. Why is this your business? Isaiah thought. Self-preservation demanded he walk away. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. The local sheriff didn’t believe the story and Crowe would kill another innocent. He had to be found. He had to be caught.

The case was insanely harrowing. Isaiah came close to death several times, closer than he ever had before. He became a fugitive and contemplated suicide. He was kidnapped by outlaws. A gale nearly blew him off a cliff face. He had a knife fight in the middle of a bonfire. He crashed a motorcycle and was nearly crushed by an avalanche, and in the midst of this maelstrom a stinging irony revealed itself. The PTSD symptoms had virtually disappeared. The danger, the adrenaline, the mental machinations and extreme physical demands abated the illness. But when the case ended, the symptoms roared back and flattened him. Now here he was in the hospital contemplating his future. There were only two choices. To be sick again, or to resume the work that made him sick. “I’ll be sick,” he said as he lay there on the gurney. He’d never return to the cesspool. He would get out of here and go someplace where there was peace, where no one knew him, where there was no IQ. Where there was no I.

  

A nurse had just left his room. Isaiah was curled up in the crisp hospital sheets. He should have asked her for more meds. Something to make him sleep and escape his misery while images of Grace strobed in and out of his mind. They’d lived together briefly. In the late afternoons, she’d set up her easel in the backyard. She said the light was warmer and softer when the sun set and rose. Isaiah observed her from the window. She stood at her easel, perfectly still, like an egret waiting in a tide pool. Long minutes passed. She wasn’t restless and she didn’t fidget. He admired her humility, knowing the world changed in its own good time. They did small things. Cooked, shopped, went for walks, talked about nothing, sat on the stoop and drank cold beers and read to each other lying in bed; things he immediately forgot but that now in retrospect seemed so meaningful and sweet.

  

Deronda called and stirred him out of his reverie.

She was breathless, like she’d run up a flight of stairs. “Grace has gone missing,” she said.

Isaiah sat up. His pains vanished, his stomach lurched. “Missing? What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s missing and nobody knows where she’s at. Last time I talked to her was yesterday. I texted her a bunch of times, but she don’t answer. I was hoping she was with you.”

“No, she’s not.” He was already out of bed and donning his clothes. Deronda said Grace left her handbag behind. Keys, wallet, everything.

“The police ain’t doin’ shit. They told me to wait seventy-two hours,” Deronda said. “It’s some kinda policy.”

“Do they know who did it?”

“Dodson said it was somebody named Skip Hanson. I asked him how he knew and he said it was the dog collar.”

“Dog collar?”

“It was left in the driveway. It’s supposed to be some kinda message.” Isaiah froze. The fear was overwhelming. Skip was a hitman, cunning, brutal and erratic. They met on a case. At the time, Skip lived alone in the desert, murdering people for money and raising a pack of lethal canines. They were his family and the only source of love in his life. Isaiah sent Skip to jail and his loved ones were put down. Even five years later, Skip’s hatred was palpable, a radiating heat, like standing in front of a blast furnace. “I’m on my way,” Isaiah said.

  

Isaiah was on the road, the headlights carving a tunnel through the darkness. He was driving Grace’s car. A 1968 Mustang GTI she’d lovingly restored in memory of her father. She’d given him the car before he went away. Isaiah could feel her presence, her small hands on his, turning the wheel, guiding him home. He’d pass through Lake Tahoe soon, take Highway 88 to Interstate 5 and an eighty-mile-an-hour sprint to Long Beach and home. A seven-hour drive. He’d do better than that.

  

There was a $25,000 bounty on Isaiah’s head. A network of gangs across the breadth of SoCal were looking for him, along with drug dealers, junkies, thieves, hustlers, thugs and ex-cons of every sort. Manzo Gutierrez led the posse, the highly intelligent Khan of the Sureños Locos 13. Manzo and Isaiah weren’t friends, but they respected each other’s strengths, exchanged favors and stayed on their own sides of the street.

Isaiah had betrayed Manzo, not for his own gain, but to save an emotionally disabled young woman from murder charges. The reason was immaterial. Manzo was humiliated and the Locos lost out on a seven-figure arms deal. There was no forgiveness, only restitution and death. The bounty lured ordinary folks into the pursuit. That was a lot of coin for pointing a finger. Looking for Grace under those conditions was impossible, never knowing if the butcher, the baker, the crackheads in the parking lot or the checker at the supermarket would rat you out. Manzo would have to call them off and somehow rescind the reward. Convincing the shrewd gang leader would take ingenuity, conviction and a giant set of brass balls. Isaiah possessed all of the above but little hope he could pull it off. He was a fugitive from street justice.

With every mile, Isaiah felt IQ returning. Keen, relentless, senses wide open, his mind working smoothly, without doubts or indecision, measuring the meager data, considering options, making choices. He felt like a mother whose child is pinned under a car, that nexus of love, urgency and terror giving her the strength to lift the massive weight and save her baby. Maybe the PTSD would return after he found Grace, he thought. But it didn’t matter. Get her back, Isaiah.

His phone buzzed. A number he didn’t recognize.

“What’s up, Q Fuck?” Skip said. Isaiah was stunned. His phone was new, a burner. Grace probably gave him the number.

“Skip,” Isaiah said, hoping his voice didn’t falter.

“Well, well, well, how things change,” the killer said. Isaiah knew to avoid accusations and aggression. It gave Skip a reason to hurt Grace.

“Hey, Grace, I’ve got your boyfriend on the phone,” he called out. She’s not dead in a ditch, thought Isaiah. That means I can find her. “Funny thing,” Skip went on. “We were just talking about you—weren’t we, honey? By the way, she’s not bad or anything but a guy like you could do way better than this.” No, thought Isaiah. No one could do better than this. “She’s not so great in the personality department either,” Skip continued. “But we’re getting along great. Oh, she got out of line a couple of times and I put her in her place. Holding a gun to her head took the starch right out of her, right, Grace?” Isaiah couldn’t swallow, couldn’t speak, he was trembling. “Are you there, asshole?” Skip said.

“Yes, I’m here.” He let it hang. He wasn’t going to say Please don’t hurt her, or Is she okay? Or, especially, I’m going to kill you, motherfucker. Skip would taunt him all the more.

“Yeah, the strong, silent type,” Skip said, contemptuous. “You always were. Do you want to talk to her?”

“You’re in charge. I have no say in it,” Isaiah said. Skip laughed.

“I like this, I like it when you’re humble. Yeah, it suits you, and you know what? It’s gonna get worse, Q Fuck. It’s gonna get much worse. Hey, Grace, get over here!” There were rustling sounds. “Say the wrong thing and you’re fucked,” Skip said.

“Isaiah? Don’t worry, I’m okay,” she said. Her voice was soft and throaty, a lance through his soul. Just like her, he thought. Kidnapped and she’s reassuring you.

“I’m glad. I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. Stay steady, Isaiah.

“I mean that, I’m really fine,” she went on unconvincingly. “I’m not injured or anything and I’m all right. Skip’s treating me fine.” Isaiah opened his mouth but nothing came out. What could he say? Keep your chin up? You’ll come home soon? I’ll be there in a jiffy?

“That’s good,” he said. He didn’t want her to talk anymore. He knew they were on speakerphone and he knew Skip was standing over her with a baseball bat. If she said the wrong thing she’d likely get her skull cracked open.

“Skip said he’s going to let me go so don’t worry,” she said.

“You should get off, Grace,” Isaiah said. There were more rustling sounds and Skip came on.

“All right, that’s it.” He was probably upset because Isaiah told her to get off and not him. “Go over there and sit down,” Skip said. “Go on!” Skip threw something and Grace yelped.

“Okay! Okay!” she said distantly. Isaiah instigated the deaths of others, but he’d never killed anyone himself. Oh, you will be punished, Skip. For every mark that’s on her, for every time she cried in pain, for every time you touched her, you will be punished and it won’t stop until you’re dead.

“You know what’s gonna happen now, don’t you?” Skip said. Isaiah did know. Skip would use Grace to torment him. “We’re gonna play hide-and-seek,” Skip said. “I hide Grace and you seek. Think you can do that, Q Fuck?”

“I, uh, I don’t know,” Isaiah said.

“I’m an impatient guy,” said Skip. “If you don’t find her and I get tired of waiting, I’ll kill her and stuff her body in a dumpster. Better put a move on it, Q Fuck. Oh yeah, I left a message for you.” Skip disconnected and Isaiah suddenly realized he was going nearly a hundred miles an hour. Skip said he left a message but didn’t say where. It took him one second to figure it out. He called Dodson.

“It’s Isaiah,” he said.

“Where the hell are you?” Dodson said. “You couldn’t send a text or something, let people know what’s goin’ on? You better be on your way back.” Antagonism was Dodson’s opening bid whatever the circumstances.

“Just leaving Fresno,” Isaiah said. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing here. Everybody’s on the lookout. I told ’em Skip was long gone but they’re still looking. I don’t know why but lots of folks round here are fond of your ass.”

“I talked to Skip.”

“You talked to him?” Dodson said. “What’s that crazy muthafucka got to say?”

“He has Grace. Wants to play hide-and-seek.”

“Uh-huh,” said Dodson like he knew it all along. “And you’ll be runnin’ around all crazy, following clues Skip made up, and you know what’s gonna happen then? He’ll lead you right into a trap.”

“Seems like it,” Isaiah said.

“I know what you gonna do too,” Dodson replied.

“Oh really? What’s that?”

“You’ll see it coming like you usually do, then you’ll walk right into it.”

“Why would I do that?” Isaiah said.

“Because if you find Skip, you find Grace. That, and you think your freakishly large brain will get you out of anything even when it won’t.”

“I’ll meet you at Blue Hill,” Isaiah said.

Dodson’s voice went falsetto. “Blue Hill? Ain’t nothin’ out there but—” Isaiah disconnected before Dodson could give him twelve reasons why that made no sense.

  

Dodson entered the kitchen. Cherise was sitting at the breakfast table with a stack of files and her laptop. She supervised a team of paralegals at a downtown law firm and brought work home all the time. Cherise was a fine-looking woman. She possessed a sweet, sexy side that still air-fried his hormones after six years of marriage. She was also churchgoing, frighteningly intelligent, so honest it was off-putting and a firm believer in earning your daily bread. On the whole, he was glad he married her. He’d still be a no-account, meandering low-life hustler if he’d continued his wayward ways. On the whole.

“I just got off the phone with Isaiah,” he said.

“You did?” Cherise said.

“He’s coming. Just leaving Fresno.”

“That’s fantastic news,” Cherise said, pushing the laptop away. “I feel so sorry for Isaiah. He’s such a good soul. He loves Grace and she loves him. I don’t know what I’d do if—”

“What’d you do if—what?” Dodson said. “Somebody kidnapped me? Y’all should worry about the kidnapper.”

“I didn’t mean you, I meant our son, Micah. Remember him?” Their five-year-old boy, growing like a mushroom cloud.

“Isaiah wants me to meet him at Blue Hill,” Dodson said.

“Good, I’m sure he’ll need help,” Cherise said. He turned away, relieved because they were supposed to have a “serious talk.” Cherise said, “I haven’t forgotten, Juanell. Sit down. This won’t take long.” Dodson closed his eyes. That meant it would take forever.

“Not now, baby, I’m upset.”

“I’m upset too but that doesn’t mean we have to put our life on hold.” He sat. Cherise looked at him a moment. It wasn’t a nice look. More like a linebacker on fourth and one.

“The last time we talked about your chronic unemployment, you said you were going to be a fixer,” Cherise began. “I thought it was a shady idea but okay, I can see how it fits your personality. You said you wanted to help people with their problems, like you did with Deronda. I’m proud of you for that.”

It happened months ago. A man named Bobby James tried to blackmail Deronda for half her business. Dodson stepped in. He made a shrewd calculation, squashed Bobby James and sent the asshole on his way. Deronda said he should be a fixer and regretfully, that was what he told Cherise.

“What I want to know is, why aren’t you out there fixing things?” Cherise said.

“Because nobody knows about it,” Dodson said. “It’s hard to flex that kind of thing. What do I say on social media? ‘Hello, friends. I’m proud to announce my new career as a professional fixer. My qualifications? I was a street hustler, I sold drugs, I ran a Ponzi scheme and spent time in Vacaville.’” Cherise rolled her eyes. Dodson continued as if she wasn’t there. “‘It was there I got my degree in duplicity, deception, bribery, double-crossing, double-dealing, short cons, long cons, extortion and graft. Please have a look at my website. W W W dot sneaky muthafucka.’”

“You know how I feel about that language, Juanell, and as a matter of fact, I have a client for you.” She looked at him, hesitant. She was never hesitant. He was getting a bad feeling.

“You gonna keep me guessing?” Dodson said.

“Reverend Arnall.” Cherise said it like she was confessing something.

“Reverend Arnall? If he needs help, why don’t he ask Jesus? Can’t the Son of God help him out?”

“I’m angry with you already, Juanell,” Cherise said, narrowing her eyes. “Profane Christ and you won’t see me naked again until you’re playing Chinese checkers at the senior center.”

Dodson made a small groaning sound. “What does the Reverend want?”

“He can tell you himself,” Cherise said. Dodson’s relationship with the church was a puff of air.

“If this is about my chronic unemployment, is the Reverend gonna pay me?” Dodson said. Again, she hesitated.

“He’ll pray for you and give you the Lord’s blessing.”

“Is that like Bitcoin?” Dodson said. “I need a new car.”

“You’ll be helping others, Juanell. Isn’t that the point?” Cherise said.

“That’s one of ’em. I believe the other was money.”

“Never mind,” Cherise said, waving like she was batting away a mosquito. “I’ve made an appointment for you with the Reverend on Thursday and don’t you dare blow it off.”

  

The sun was rising when Isaiah reached the desert, brown and barren, piles of gray boulders and low, dusky foothills. It was already in the eighties. The closest civilization to Skip’s place was Fergus, a two-block truck stop that sold inedible donuts and bad coffee. Isaiah drove into the parking lot of the Dew Drop Inn and saw Dodson sitting in his car. A fifteen-year-old, gleaming white Lexus RS. Dodson was in the driver’s seat, his arm straight out on the steering. . .