by G. K. Parks
Axel Kincaid was not innocent. He took me to a race. He practically admitted to the illegal poker games in the back room, and for all intents and purposes, he was a car thief. Becca told me a tale of drugs and prostitutes, but without substantiation, the word of a dead hooker wouldn’t go far. Axel was involved in some serious shit. I just wasn’t sure he was a killer. Something clicked, and I went in search of Fox’s phone records.
The text message I had seen about the five cars didn’t appear to be about the thefts. In context, it appeared to be a typo. It should have said five card, as in poker. I reread the rest of the messages. They talked about the latest deal, a new deck, five card, the turn, and the river.
“Maybe it’s in code.” But if it was, I’d have a hell of a time proving it. A new thought formed, and I went down to evidence to pick up Fox’s cell phone. I turned it on and scrolled through his call log and contact list. He hadn’t heard from Emilio either. I tapped the bagged phone gently against the counter, contemplating what to do.
“DeMarco,” Fennel jogged down the steps to meet me, “I just got off the phone with the DEA. They’ve had Hart under surveillance for a while. A few months ago, they received an anonymous tip. It turns out he gets an inordinate amount of suspicious shipments from Columbia and other parts of South America. They have agents inside the cartels who recall Hart visiting one of the compounds about eight months ago. But they are still building a case, so anything we find, they want access to.”
“Who tipped them?”
Fennel shrugged. “How’d it go with Kincaid?”
“It didn’t.” I let out a lengthy exhale. “He’s going to slip through our fingers. I can feel it. He offered to cooperate if we cut him loose.”
“What did Grayson say?”
“I haven’t told him yet.” Because I already knew the answer.
Twenty-two
“You shouldn’t have arrested him,” ADA Winters said.
“We found our murder weapon in his desk drawer. What the hell were we supposed to do?” Fennel asked. “Throw a party?”
“Yeah, okay.” Winters clicked his pen a few times. “I get it, but Axel Kincaid isn’t some two-bit hoodlum you can squeeze for a confession. Once he gets arraigned, bail will be set. He’s going to walk no matter what you do.”
“Right now, he’s still our prime suspect,” Grayson said.
“Did we get anything out of Marvin Struthers?” Fennel asked.
“He works for a pawn shop that also provides loans on the side. When payment is not made, he collects the items the borrower put up as collateral. Unfortunately, there’s nothing illegal about it,” Grayson said.
“He was at the races,” I pointed out.
“He claims he works those on the side. Gets an anonymous message with a location and time, and he just shows up. He says he doesn’t know who’s in charge or who organizes them. He just handles the wagers, issues payouts, takes his cut, and leaves the house’s winnings in an envelope at a dead drop. We’re keeping eyes on the drop, but nothing links to Kincaid.”
“Struthers must be lying,” I said.
“We’re going to have a tough time proving it,” Grayson said.
“What about the tattoo?” I asked. “That places him inside the hotel hours before the heist, around the same time Kincaid was there.”
“Struthers isn’t the only one with a reaper tattoo. He wasn’t at the hotel; he was across town sitting through a driver’s safety class. But he did say he saw a few guys at one of the races with basically the same tattoo and decided to get a similar design,” Grayson said.
“What guys?” Brad asked.
“Security guards. He didn’t get names, but you know the type. Crew cuts and muscles for brains.”
“The way Brad used to be,” I teased, and Fennel squinted at me.
“Unfortunately, that doesn’t get us anywhere either,” Grayson said, reeling us back in. “And John Smith’s prepaid credit card turned out to be another dead end. Assuming Smith’s our killer, he went to a lot of trouble to cover his tracks and conceal his identity. He could be anyone.”
“Like Kincaid?” Brad asked.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have anything solid on him,” Grayson said.
Winters met my eyes. We both knew Kincaid had an alibi for the time in question. We dragged in half of Spark’s membership, most of Kincaid’s investors, and nearly all of his employees. They said he was at the club at the time of the shooting. It just so happened he had been at the hotel an hour before, just like two hundred other people.
“What about the car races and illegal gambling?” I asked. “Those seem pretty damn solid to me.”
“Right now, those are the only charges we stand to bring. And that’s a crapshoot. Given the names on Spark’s list, Kincaid will get a slap on the wrist. I’d say if you can get him to cooperate at least you have a shot at finding the men involved in the heist and murders,” Winters said. “Kicking him is your only play. Plus, it’ll give you more time to build a stronger case and get more evidence. Without the cars or eyewitnesses, you don’t have anything. And since he has Mr. Almeada and a slew of other topnotch defense attorneys in his corner, they’ll spin it to make it look like Kincaid’s been actively cooperating and the PD’s just holding a grudge for his past infractions.”
“Fine.” Grayson pointed at me. “See how much you can get out of him. The two of you have a rapport, so convince him to tell us everything he knows.”
“He’s going to want immunity,” I cautioned.
Winters stood. “Let’s get this straightened out.”
When we entered the interrogation room, Kincaid was sipping his latte. He put the cup down, his eyes sparkling. He believed he won. “Am I free to go?”
“Not yet.” I leaned against the wall in the corner of the room, crossed my arms over my chest, and stared at Kincaid. “First, you’re going to spill your guts.”
Kincaid snorted. “Not so fast.” He waited for his attorney and Winters to negotiate the terms before he made a peep. “Emilio likes to blow off steam at Rhinestones. The bouncers are lax when it comes to keeping the guys from getting too handsy with the dancers. And you know Emilio likes to get handsy.”
“You think that’s where he’s been for the last few days?”
“Since he couldn’t touch you, he probably still needed to scratch the itch.” Kincaid jangled his right wrist, waiting for me to unhook him from the bar. “He’s been known to blow a few grand in the champagne room from time to time. And Rhinestones isn’t exactly a reputable establishment.” He chuckled, finding something amusing. “But you’re the police. You should already know that.”
“What’s your point?” I asked.
“There’s a shitty inn which shares a parking lot with Rhinestones that always has vacancies. The last time Emilio and I had words, he stayed there a few days to lick his wounds.” He smirked. “Or have someone else lick them for him.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be telling us this because Rhinestones is one of your rivals, would you?” Winters asked.
Kincaid slipped into his jacket. “Rhinestones caters to a different clientele with a different set of tastes. People who want three-dimensional porn go to Rhinestones.”
“So who goes to Spark?” Winters asked.
Axel continued to stare into my eyes, even as he answered. “A more refined crowd,” he crossed close to me and added, “with a taste for danger.”
“One last thing,” I said, forcing Axel to stop in the doorway, “do you have any idea who would want to pin the murder on you?”
“You’re asking the wrong question, Detective. You should be asking who do I know who would commit a murder.”
Winters finally bit. “Who?”
“You have Spark’s membership list?” Kincaid waited for us to nod. “Pick a name.” An officer escorted Kincaid and his attorney down the hall.
“Is this guy serious?” Winters asked. “Pick a name. What the fuck is that?”
&
nbsp; “He’s telling us they are all powerful individuals, capable of anything.”
I jotted down a few notes and made sure we were keeping tabs on Kincaid. I didn’t trust him. And now that he was free, he might rabbit. With his wealth, I wouldn’t be surprised if he booked the first flight out to a non-extradition country and waited to see what happened before returning.
“What are you going to do now?” Winters asked, watching as I grabbed my jacket.
“Follow up with Rhinestones. I’ll give you a call if I need a warrant.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
A laugh escaped, and I slapped my palm over my mouth. “Haven’t you been to enough strip clubs this week?”
“Strip club?” Fennel asked, amused by our exchange. “Count me in.”
I pointed at my partner. “You’re coming with me, but we have to stop at an ATM first. The fees to use the machines inside those places are astronomical.” I turned to Winters. “I believe you have other things to do, counselor.”
“Be careful, Liv.”
I nodded and went into Grayson’s office to update him on the situation.
Rhinestones was everything the name alluded to and not much more. A small cluster of day drinkers sat around, ogling the women who looked about as thrilled to be here as I was. The doorman tried to charge us the cover, but a quick flash of our badges kept him at bay.
Fennel took off his sunglasses as we entered the dingy, windowless room. “So this is the kind of place your boyfriend likes to hang out.”
I elbowed him. “I’m only saying this one more time. Winters is not my boyfriend.”
“Well, it’s no wonder when he likes hanging out in places like this.”
I glanced back at Brad, who somehow managed to keep a straight face. “You planning on taking that act on the road?”
“We just did. That’s how we got here, remember?”
“You need to work on your material.”
We crossed the room and made our way to the bar. After showing Emilio’s photo to the bartender, he pointed us to one of the dancers.
“Verona Mercury?” Fennel asked as she spun lazily down the pole.
“Who wants to know?” she asked.
Oh, dear god. Why did people always ask that question? I rubbed my face, prepared for Brad to run through his usual bit.
“I did. Just now.” He grinned, but she wasn’t impressed. For the record, neither was I. “Detectives Fennel and DeMarco. We just have a few questions.”
She looked around the room. There was only one guy pressed up against her portion of the stage. “I’m taking a break, Mike. You want a refill, now’s your chance.” He nodded, left a stack of dollar bills on the table, and headed back to the bar. She held out her hand, and Brad helped her down. “So what’s this about?”
“Emilio Rivers,” I said. “Have you seen him?”
“Honey, I see Emilio all the time. He’s practically paying my way through night school. He’s a big spender.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Last night, I think.” She scrunched her face. “Maybe it was the night before. My days blend together. I know he’s been around a lot more these last couple of weeks. He’s been renting out the champagne room in order to show off to his friends. We must have cleared ten thousand this month on him alone.”
“What friends?” Fennel asked, already removing his phone. “This guy?” Verona squinted at the screen and shook her head. Fennel flipped to the next picture. “What about him?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“How many people were in the group?” I asked.
“Four, counting Emilio.”
“All men?”
She nodded. “Ladies come in occasionally, but they’re typically in groups or with their boyfriends. And Emilio wasn’t exactly relationship material. He’s harmless, but he’s not quite right, y’know?”
“Tell us about the other men in his group. Do they always come together?” Fennel asked.
She giggled. “Um…no. Some nights it was the four of them. But the last time I saw Emilio, it was just him and his buddy. I don’t know what happened to the other two.”
“Did he normally drop that much cash here?” I asked.
“No, just these last two, maybe three, weeks. It was weird. It’s like he won the lottery or something.” She jerked her chin at the bartender who was pointing at the stage. “I gotta get back to work.”
“If you see Emilio or any of his friends, give us a call.” Brad handed her his card.
“Sure thing, sweetie.”
“How much cash do you have on you?” I asked, mentally counting what was in my wallet in addition to the hundred I pulled from the ATM on our way here.
“Sixty,” Fennel said. “I can’t afford the champagne room, Liv.”
“Neither can I. Let’s hope the bartender’s in the same predicament.” I led the way back to the bar. Taking a seat on one of the stools, I smiled at the bartender. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Jimmy.” He glanced back at the stage to make sure Verona was back to work.
“Sorry for the interruption. We appreciate your help.” I looked at the drink menu written on the glass mirror behind the bottles in neon marker. “I’ll take two shots of Jaeger and a top-shelf martini.” I slid the cash across the bar. “But since I’m on duty, I’ll have to come back for them some other time.”
He didn’t even bother looking at the cash before tucking it into his pocket. “Anything I can get you now?”
“Emilio’s receipts and the receipts of anyone else who might have been with him.”
The bartender studied me for a long moment, his gaze shifting to Brad who was leaning one elbow against the bar while watching the girls on the poles, as if oblivious to our exchange. After a few more seconds of careful deliberation, he reached beneath the bar and removed a spike covered in paid receipts. He flipped through, sliding a stack off and handing me probably a hundred receipts. They weren’t all from Emilio, but Jimmy couldn’t be bothered to filter through them. And for the forty dollars I slipped him, this was a lot more than I ever expected.
“Anything else?” the bartender asked, a slight edge to his voice, indicating he was running out of patience.
“Those drinks sound pretty good,” Fennel mused. “I’ll have the same, also at a later date.” He slipped a fifty to the bartender, but he kept his finger on the cash before the bartender hid it away. “Just remember, I’m a better tipper.” Fennel put his phone on the bar and scrolled through some photos. “How did these guys tip?”
As soon as Brad removed his finger from the money, it disappeared from sight. The bartender picked up the phone. “Don’t know any of them.” The bartender kept scrolling before Brad could take back the phone. “But this loser was a total cheapskate. He told me to keep the change on a $1.98 draft, and he only gave me $2.00.”
“You’re sure?” Brad asked.
The bartender nodded. “Yeah, but Emilio made up for it every time they were here together, so I can’t complain too much.”
Brad glanced at the ceiling. “Any chance you have security cameras in here?”
“Nope.”
“What about the one at the door?” I asked.
Again the headshake. “It’s been busted for the last two years, but we keep it there to threaten guys who get too rowdy or aggressive.”
Fennel slipped the bartender his card, and we left the club.
“Who’d he ID?” I asked.
Brad waited until we were inside the car before handing me his phone. I looked down at the image. It was a close-up of our crime scene victim. Juan Rodriguez drank with Emilio on several occasions. Things just got a lot more complicated.
Twenty-three
He couldn’t believe they pulled it off. The plan actually worked, even if the police had nearly intervened. Killing Juan was necessary. It wasn’t planned. His partners would have forbidden it, but it wasn’t about what they wanted. He was
in charge. This was his plan. They were lucky to be invited along for the ride.
A therapist once accused him of being a narcissist. Then she called him a sociopath. Those were just labels. He stopped seeing her the next day. He didn’t need therapy. He just needed to do something to change his life. It was the situation that was getting to him, not some buried trauma or chemical imbalance. His lack of empathy was due to dealing with privileged, arrogant assholes on a daily basis. They never saw him for who he was, but now they would. Now the entire world would see.
It was a shame he couldn’t take credit, but he would keep his ego in check. Leaving the gun in the desk drawer might have been a mistake. He wouldn’t make any of those again, just like with Juan.
Juan was the weak link. The parking attendant recognized them. How could he not when he had overheard their plans? The kid handed them all the necessary details on a silver platter without a second thought. If it hadn’t been for Juan, they never would have known about the wall safe or which hotel keycards accessed which areas. Juan could have saved himself if he agreed to help them. They could have been a four-man team, instead of three. But the kid laughed it off, believing the heist with a million dollar score was some drunken fantasy.
But it wasn’t about the money. He didn’t care about that. He had plenty of it. It was about the power. It was about sending a message. And as he stared at the fifteen bricks of cocaine wedged inside the suitcase, the message was clear. Fuck you, Mr. Hart. Smiling, he returned to his waiting car. He didn’t have to waste his time or energy killing Hart. The cartel would do it for him.
* * *
I rested my face in my hands, rubbing my pounding head. “It was an inside job.”