by G. K. Parks
I’d only gotten a few glimpses into Spark’s private back room, but I’d seen the pink slips and car keys thrown into the pot of several high-stakes poker games. And I heard whispers of specific imports being procured and shipped to overseas buyers. Plus, I overheard some club members talking about Kincaid’s races.
Unlike the movies, these cars weren’t tricked out pieces of shit driven by teenagers. These vehicles were designed for speed and driven by wealthy thrill-seekers. Six-figure cars raced down the blocked-off streets while people placed bets. It was illegal, not just because of the obvious public endangerment and traffic law violations but also because of the gambling. However, when units rolled up and shut everything down, there was no way to prove Kincaid orchestrated it. He followed the rules of Fight Club. And no one was talking, just like tonight.
Even if Kincaid somehow managed to slip out the back, a dozen people would swear he was in the club. And the same would hold true for Axel’s top associates. Kincaid’s crew always alibied out, and without physical evidence or eyewitness testimony, we were never able to pin anything on them, not even the illicit poker games. But he was guilty as sin. I knew it. We all knew it. We just had no way of proving it.
For the last few months, I’d been working my way into Axel’s good graces. A vice informant working as a waitress at Kincaid’s club vouched for me when another of his waitresses was arrested for solicitation and possession. Since he was in a bind, he hired me on the spot. And I’d been there ever since.
Most nights, I worked as a waitress. Occasionally, he’d put me in one of the cages to dance. I did whatever he wanted and didn’t ask questions. He liked that, almost as much as black leather, a bare midriff, and my fascination with motorcycles. Of course, a woman who enjoyed something powerful between her thighs usually appealed to most men. If they didn’t fancy me, they liked the sleek, sporty, Japanese bike my cover persona drove. Too bad motorcycles scared the hell out of me.
I was three months in, but Axel still didn’t trust me completely. Trust had to be earned, and he didn’t know me well enough to test me. But from the looks he’d given me, it was obvious he wanted to get to know me better. Maybe it was time I took him up on that offer.
“Liv,” my partner, Brad Fennel, took a seat at his desk, “are you up to speed?”
“Getting there.”
Brad filled me in on the crime, but it was basic. The security footage from the garage showed three masked men inside a white SUV. The SUV followed the valet, who was parking a yellow Ferrari, into the garage. They boxed in the Ferrari. Two of the men stepped out of the car and forced the valet to give up the keys.
For no apparent reason, they shot him three times in the chest. They searched the body, taking the valet’s wallet, card case, phone, and a few sets of keys. One of the other sets of keys went to a silver McLaren. The SUV drove away, and the two masked men split up. The security camera didn’t catch the SUV’s license plate number, but it caught a glimpse of the two sports cars leaving the garage two minutes later.
“Who called it in?” I asked.
“Another valet,” Fennel said. “He was parking another car, spotted Juan Rodriguez on the ground, and called 911. By the time first responders arrived, Rodriguez was dead.”
“Was Rodriguez still alive when the other valet found him?”
“I don’t think so. The ME said he thinks Rodriquez’s death was instantaneous.” My partner swallowed. He hated bodies. We both did, but he tended to take them more personally than most. I had to do something to get him out of his morbid mood or else he’d find himself at the bottom of a bottle as soon as shift ended.
“Instantaneous, huh? I’m glad that word-a-day calendar is coming in handy, but if you start throwing around big words like that, the other cops are gonna tease you mercilessly.” I smirked. “Oh, wait.”
He cracked a smile. “You should hear me use apropos in a sentence.”
“I just did.”
“Shut up.” He clicked a few computer keys and focused on me. “What are you thinking?”
“Have you tried pinging Rodriguez’s phone? We might be able to track the killer that way.”
“No dice. He probably tossed it out the window after they drove away. Have you heard anything coming from Kincaid’s crew?”
“Not yet. If Kincaid pulled this off, he must have buyers lined up. I asked cyber division to do some checking. Most deals are brokered online, but since Kincaid’s so damn careful, we need to check with our CIs and see if they’ve heard anything. We should probably read in the auto theft unit and monitor traffic cams. The more eyes, the better.”
“Ugh. Are you sure we have to get the state police involved?” Brad mumbled a few derogatory things about incompetent yahoos.
I looked down at my phone. Before Fennel arrived, I made a few calls in between watching the news and reading the reports, but no one bothered to call me back. “We need as many resources on this as possible. We don’t want the cars to get loaded into a truck or freight container. You said it yourself; we don’t have evidence. So unless we find the cars, or more importantly, the thieves, we have nothing but a body. And I’m sick of people dying for no good reason. Rodriguez is our first DB since we started investigating Kincaid, and if this keeps up, he might not be our last.”
Fennel pressed his lips together and assessed me. “I know you, DeMarco. Is this what’s got your panties in a twist?”
“Wow, you can tell my panties are twisted from there? Is this why you’re a detective? Or are you just hoping I’ll flash you to disprove that statement?”
“Seriously, Liv, what’s going on? You seem out of sorts.”
“We know Axel has a violent past, but this is the first time he’s been violent or his crew’s been violent. Taking a life jeopardizes everything he’s worked to build. Murder can’t be swept under the rug as easily as some rich asshole’s stolen Porsche. I’m not convinced he’s behind this.”
“He’s the hottest game in town,” my partner countered. “He has the connections to move cars like that. If our suspicions are correct, it’s how he made his fortune in the first place. And after that Maserati stunt, we know he has the balls.”
Regardless, something about the situation didn’t feel right. “True, but Kincaid knows this will bring the police knocking. I don’t think he’d risk it.”
“For a million dollars, I bet he would. Plus, we have nothing to go on. Maybe all the other GTAs were test runs to see how smart we are.” Brad eyed me. “We know he’s a thrill-seeker. Maybe he just escalated to murder.”
“Oh god. I hate to think what that might mean.” My phone beeped, and I glanced at the number. It was go-time. I typed out a response and hit send. “Pull the records on every sports car stolen in the last three months. We need to make certain Axel’s responsible for all of them.” I bit my lip and stared at Brad. “It won’t hurt to make sure our assumptions are correct before we rule out other possibilities. I don’t want a killer getting away, and I know you don’t either.”
“You really think another crew is responsible?”
“I don’t know. Some of the previous thefts didn’t exactly fit Axel’s MO, and the timing didn’t always coordinate. I’ve been with him when some of those cars were boosted.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t have someone do it for him,” Brad argued.
“I don’t know. I just don’t see how he’s moving them without us noticing. We have eyes on his club, his apartment, and the warehouse. Where is he keeping them? Where is he sending them? None of this makes much sense.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Yeah.”
Fennel sighed and jerked his head at the door. “I’ll do some research, but the brass is going to need proof before they scrap this op and start chasing some unknown third party.”
“That’s why we have to find evidence to prove or disprove my theory.”
“Right, because you only follow the evidence.”
U
nsure if that was a sarcastic remark, I gave my partner a final look and grabbed my phone. It was time I went back into the trenches.
Three
He was jittery. He didn’t expect to be. He thought he would be calm and relaxed now that it was done. But instead, he was wired. It must be the adrenaline. He felt more alive than ever before, but the feeling was fading fast. It was like a drug, and he already wanted another hit.
Steady, he thought. He closed his eyes and leaned into the headrest. He could still feel the vibration of the engine coursing through him. His hands tingled. The friction from his sleek leather driving gloves caressing the steering wheel usually sent a pleasant jolt through him, but this time, it was the jerk of the forty caliber he remembered. That was unexpected but necessary.
He recalled the look on Juan Rodriguez’s face the moment the bullet pierced his heart. The parking attendant shouldn’t have turned around. He should have taken the path to the walkway, like he always did, and returned to the valet stand. Instead, Juan turned around and recognized the white SUV. It was that moment which sealed his fate.
Despite the mask, Juan could identify him. And that posed a problem. So he fixed it. Three shots. That’s all it took. The force of the blast knocked Juan to the ground. The blood sprayed backward and forward, misting the side of the white SUV and leaving a thick, runny ketchup-like stain against the shiny yellow sports car.
The boom had been so loud. It practically echoed. He chuckled, realizing in the utter silence that he still heard a distinct ringing in his ears from the weapon being discharged in an enclosed space. Next time, he’d wear earplugs. He didn’t want any of his senses deadened, but he didn’t want to risk permanent hearing loss. He lived on the edge and wanted to experience everything. He wouldn’t be able to do that with a blown-out eardrum. He’d have to be more careful in the future.
Lights flashed twice behind him, and he checked the rearview mirror. It was safe. He brushed his hand over the steering wheel one last time, tracing the symbol. He’d never see the car again. He tucked the gun away and climbed out. The car would be scrubbed. The evidence eradicated. The police would come looking, but they’d never find anything. He was confident. He had the perfect plan. He would enjoy watching them frantically search. The police would never stop hunting, but he wasn’t afraid. He was amused.
* * *
After a quick detour to my cover apartment to change clothes, put on my makeup, and exchange my car for the motorcycle, I went to Spark, Axel Kincaid’s club. The side entrance required client verification, and I waved at the security camera aimed at my face.
“Hey, buzz me in. I left my wallet in my locker last night.” In actuality, I left the wallet with my cover ID and fake credit cards inside the locker most nights in case Axel ever wanted to make sure I was who I claimed to be. “George, c’mon, don’t be a buster.” I tapped my foot impatiently and made a face. “Fine, but I’m going to tell Mr. Kincaid you wouldn’t let me in.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed Axel’s office line. He was too careful to give me his actual cell number, but I knew he had the calls forwarded. I waited, listening to the ringing, but he wasn’t answering.
Of course, you can’t answer your phone. You’re not here, I thought. It went to voicemail, and I hung up and tried again. I stared up at the camera. “Come on. Let me in. Please.”
“Hey,” Axel said, surprising me, “what’s wrong?”
“George won’t let me inside.”
“George isn’t working tonight. No one is. The club’s closed.”
“Why?”
“What do you want, Liv?”
“I think I left my wallet in my locker. I was going to grab a drink, but I don’t have my ID.”
“Go to Serano’s. They don’t card.”
“Can’t you just let me in?”
“I’m hosting a private function. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up, and I let out a frustrated sigh.
A private function. Based on the nearby cars and the low rumble coming from within the building, people were definitely inside, but I was having a difficult time believing Axel was. His lack of appearance was practically a confession, except the courts would never see it that way. And even if he wasn’t involved in the two recent thefts and the murder, whatever was going on inside Spark right now had to be illegal. I just didn’t know what it was, and without a warrant, I’d never find out. Or would I?
I returned to my bike and sent a text to my CI. We needed to meet. Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to a dive bar on Amsterdam. The regulars clustered around the TVs, nursing hangovers or what would eventually become hangovers. Rebecca or Becca, as she was better known, flicked her gaze to the smoke-filled rear of the bar where a few of Axel’s crew were shooting pool. The only time they ever ventured off their home turf was when Axel closed the club early. At least Kincaid’s story tracked.
I ordered sparkling water and glanced at the boys. Fox and Emilio acted like they hadn’t seen me, but I wasn’t convinced. Their presence here meant trouble.
Taking the glass, I slid into the cracked vinyl booth across from Becca. Her right leg jittered up and down. She took a deep drink from her glass and rubbed at her running mascara. Her left eye had a new bruise, but I didn’t comment. She kept one hand on the glass. The other she used to wipe her constantly running nose. She had all the telltale markings of an addict, including the career as a pro to go with it.
“Hey,” I said, keeping one eye on the guys, “how long have you been here?”
“Not long.”
“What about them?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. They were here when I arrived.”
“How ‘bout you finish that and we’ll take a walk? It’s a little too crowded in here.”
“Yeah, okay.” She tipped back the glass, downing whatever was left in a single gulp.
I placed my water on another table as I followed her out of the bar. I felt their eyes on us. Emilio might not care what I was doing here, but Fox would be curious. I’d have to come up with a decent excuse, but that could wait.
We didn’t speak until we were a block and a half from the bar. We ducked down a tiny dead end alley with ample streetlights. It was one of Becca’s favorites to work because the light kept away a certain level of depravity. It made her feel safe.
“Am I getting paid?” she asked, leaning against a wall while she pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the top of her thigh-high boot.
“You know I always deliver.” I pulled an envelope from the inside of my jacket and held it up. She trusted me enough not to ask to count it. She reached for it, but I tucked it back into my jacket. “Intel first. Are you working tonight?”
“I’m always working.” She puffed out a plume of smoke. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“What do you know about the recent string of GTAs?”
“Cars get taken all the time. Doesn’t mean I know a thing about it.”
“I’m not talking about just any cars. I’m talking about two very specific cars. High-end, custom jobs. A Ferrari and a McLaren. Ring any bells?”
“Nope.” She took another drag of her cigarette.
The red lipstick smudge on the paper caught my eye, and I wondered briefly if she could be playing me. Axel’s guys were at the same bar where we planned to meet. Becca could have tipped them that I was a cop. The uneasiness wormed its way through my belly, but I forced myself not to jump to conclusions.
“Who roughed you up?” I asked.
She snorted. “Some john.”
“Yeah,” I looked toward the street, “want me to take care of that for you?”
“Let it go.”
“It wasn’t Fox or Emilio, was it?”
“Shit.” She gave me a look. “I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t sell you out. I don’t hang with their crew, and you know it.”
I didn’t necessarily believe that, but she was three seconds away from shutting down. And I needed a lead. “Good. I just wante
d to make sure you were still into our arrangement.”
In response, she blew a puff of smoke in my face. “Just waiting on the cash.”
“You gotta earn it.”
She didn’t volunteer any information, so I tried again.
“Since you’re always working, you know the streets. You hear things. See things. You normally work outside Spark, making easy cash when the drunks stumble out.”
“So?”
“Did anyone mention what kind of event Axel’s hosting tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does it have anything to do with cars?”
She dropped the cigarette butt to the ground and snubbed it out with her boot. “Everything with him is fast rides.” She smiled wickedly. “But that doesn’t always mean cars.” She knew a secret and had no intention of sharing it. She eyed me up and down. “I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to turn you out yet. Maybe he can smell that cop stink on you.”
“Is he running girls?”
She lit another cigarette. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Word on the street is, whatever you want, he can get. It’s about the experience. You bring enough cash, you can snort a few lines, race down the coast, and get blown all at the same time.”
“Where does he get the cars?”
“Damn, you’re obsessed. Why the fascination?” Becca was enjoying toying with me.
“Stop playing games and tell me what you know about the cars,” I snapped.
She bounced from leg to leg, getting antsy again. “The only time I’m ever inside a fancy ride is when I’m kneeling in the front seat.”
“Was that story about the blow and being blown what actually happened? Did Kincaid pimp you out to one of his clients?”
“Even if that did happen, it’d be the word of a whore against the denial of a judge. So no, it didn’t happen.” She crushed the second cigarette butt into the pavement. “You need to stop worrying about the cars and think about what’s going on inside them.”