“After Tonto hit the ground, I saw you on the floor, just outside the kitchen . . . Jesus, Dickie,” he said, and paused, sniffed and abruptly changed course.
“There was this kid,” he continued, “some fifteen-year-old punk-rocker with long hair and a leather jacket standing over you, so I kicked him in the nuts and punched him in the face, knocked him on his ass. What the hell, you know? At that point, I had no idea who shot my partner. I saw blood everywhere and you were out, and I didn’t know how bad it was. No way I was taking any chances with any of those assholes. Turns out the kid didn’t have anything to do with any of this, just a nephew who was too stupid to get away from a downed cop. Same with Tonto, actually, as it turns out. Just two guys in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that’s what happens when you associate with assholes, right?
“Then I see your boy, Jorge—that would be the late Mr. Regalado—sprawled out on the floor, not far from you. Dead, apparently from leaking to death, by the looks of the blood around him. Turns out he’s Gilbert’s uncle, been out of the joint less than a month. There was a Rossi .38 Special in his right hand, no doubt the gun you were shot by.”
I shook my head, nothing to say and too much to process.
“It gets better,” he said. “They’re comparing his prints to a partial print that was lifted from my car after it was stolen. There’s some similarities, I guess, with the pattern. Nothing concrete yet, but it might be a match. Can you imagine that? How’s that asshole find my house, and why would they steal my car and take it back over to Fudd’s? My thought is they wanted to frame him for all of this, and that’s why they shot at us from his house. What do you think?”
I just shrugged.
He continued: “That’s something we might not ever know, and honestly, it’s the most disturbing part of all of this—other than you being shot of course.”
After a moment of silence, I mustered the strength to ask, “What’s the story on him?”
“Jorge? The asshole you shot?”
I nodded.
“He’s got robberies, assaults, an attempted murder beef, some burglaries, couple pages of dope charges, and wouldn’t you know it, a couple GTA’s. No loss to society, if that’s what you wondered.
“Funny thing, soon as I saw him, laying there on the floor, it all came together. I recognized him from the photos, the mustached dude with Gilbert at the motel, and I thought, holy shit, man, he’s the one who killed our girls. He did it, the dirty son-of-a-bitch, and now he’s shot my partner.
“I tried to tell you about him the other day, but you were too far out of it still. Kept falling asleep, irritating the shit out of me.”
“You were here?”
“Yeah, Dickie, I’ve been here every day. Can’t hardly get any work done with you laying around like this. You talked to me a little, in between sleeping. You don’t remember?”
I looked around the room as if it was the first time I’d seen it, though it seemed I’d been here a long time, and everything felt familiar. Valerie wasn’t there, and I wondered why.
My partner continued, still a little bit of excitement in his voice. “So, with this guy dead, I’m thinking Gilbert might talk, but I don’t know. He’ll probably put it all on his late uncle, the weasel he is. But with the shoe impression, the photographs, and the doctor’s statement, I’m pretty sure we’ve got him now, and Donna too.”
Floyd waited as I processed what he said. It took me a minute, my brain still a bit fuzzy, but then I realized he was saying that the man who shot me was the same guy in the photos, the guy at the motel with Gilbert. The one who killed Susie and her friend.
I wanted to know more, but the questions bounced around in my head and seemed unable to find their way out. I began fading, and for a moment, I saw the fan twirling above my head again as the darkness returned.
Floyd was saying, “How’re you feeling, partner?”
The next morning, I woke to find Valerie stroking my head, the flowery scent of her perfume opening my eyes and putting a smile to my face.
“You’re awake,” she said.
Yes, awake and alert with a clear head. No more fuzziness, at least for the time being. I said, “Hey babe, it sure is good to see you.”
“I’ve been here for a week now, right here in this chair waiting for you to come to. The first time you woke up in three days, I had gone home to get a shower and a change of clothes. Floyd told me you were awake while I was gone. It figured. He had insisted I get home and take a break, assured me you’d be sleeping the whole time but he’d keep an eye on you.”
“Val . . .”
“Did he wake you up? I know he was dying to talk to you, tell you everything that happened.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yesterday, the day before . . . I think maybe another day before that. He’s been here every day, same as me. We’ve kind of taken shifts. But it seems like whenever I’ve left, you’ve been awake for a while. I was starting to worry he was waking you when I wasn’t around, which the doctors said not to do.”
“He seemed worried.”
“We’ve all been worried, Richard.”
“It was good to see him, to hear about what happened. I had no idea—”
“He must have worn you out. By the time I got back, you were out of it again. This is the first time I’ve seen those blue eyes in days.”
“It’s good to see you.”
She smiled.
“Why don’t you get me out of here, babe? Take me home and I’ll be good as new in no time, I promise. Hell, we can get some dinner on the way home. I’m dying for a steak and beer.”
“Your doctor says you’ll be here another week, maybe more. Your injuries—” she raised a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to stifle the tears.
“I’m going to be okay, honey, you know I am. It’s going to take more than this to put me down.” I reached around, picking at the white gown over bandages and tubes, straining my neck to look down at my torso. “Look here, honey, they’ve got me all patched up, good as new.”
She nodded and forced a bit of a smile as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “You lost a kidney, Richard. You also lost a lot of blood and they’ve left that bullet in your shoulder, said it’s too risky to take it out.”
“And it won’t hurt anything to leave it, right? They do that all the time, it’s not a big deal. You go down to South L.A., Compton, everyone has bullets in them.”
She huffed.
I heard Floyd’s voice beyond my room. “Floyd’s here?”
She nodded toward the door. “Out in the hallway.”
“Who’s he talking to?”
“Probably a nurse. Richard, you need to take this seriously.”
I grimaced as a pain shot through my stomach, but tried to hide it from my wife.
“Jesus, Dickie,” Floyd said, sauntering in with an ear to ear grin, “how long you planning on milking this thing? We got shit to do, partner.”
He stopped at the edge of the bed next to Valerie, glanced at her and smiled, then looked at me and frowned. “Your lieutenant was by earlier—you were sleeping, same as all day yesterday—said he was putting me in the rotation with Lewandowski this weekend. So don’t think you’re getting any sympathy from me, partner. I’d rather be shot, lay here in bed and harass the nurses, than catch a case with that idiot.” He looked toward the bag hanging at the side of my bed. “You still on morphine?”
I shrugged.
“Good shit, eh? You remember talking to me yesterday?” He didn’t wait for my response. “You looked out of it then, too. You remember me telling you what happened?”
I nodded.
“Well, it gets better. Phil Gentry says he can say with near certainty the shoes Jorge Regalado wore to the coroner’s office”—he stopped and laughed at his clever remark—“left the shoe print at the scene.”
I pictured the crime scene, the impression in dirt, but didn’t have the energy to res
pond.
“We definitely have enough to charge them now, murder and conspiracy to commit murder. We solved a tough one, Dickie.”
“Honey,” Valerie said, “you feel like you need to rest yet?”
“Jesus,” Floyd said, “all he’s done since he got here is sleep.”
Valerie glared at him.
Floyd didn’t notice. “You know who needs some rest around here? Well, it damn sure ain’t Dickie Two Shots in the Ten Ring Jones. Did I tell you how you nailed that prick? Bam . . . bam,” he said, poking himself twice in the center of his chest. “Not bad shooting, dickhead, and I might say, it’s about time.”
“My God,” Valerie mumbled.
“Sorry, Val,” he said.
I looked at Valerie and nodded toward the table next to my bed, the one Floyd pushed out of his way when he came in. “Honey, would you mind getting me some ice chips? I’m dying of thirst.”
“You probably need a beer, Dickie.”
Val glared.
I said, “Man, that sounds good.”
“I’ll let you two have some time to yourselves,” Floyd said, “I need to get home for a few hours anyway. See you tomorrow?”
“You bet.”
He stood for a minute, looking around the room. I wondered what he was thinking, or what he planned to steal on his way out: gauze pads, tape, bedpan, bag of morphine?
He stepped toward the door and paused to check the bathroom, a quick glance in there—apparently nothing of interest—and then back toward me. “Listen, you need anything, Dickie . . .”
I nodded and gave a slight wave using my good arm. “I’m fine here, buddy.”
“Buddy? What’s this buddy shit? What happened to partner or asshole, whatever . . . Buddy?”
I attempted to smile, but doubt it showed, the fatigue taking over again. My eyes burned as I strained to stay awake, the happy button doing its job, keeping the allotted dose of narcotics flowing into my veins.
Floyd, still making his way to the door, stopped one more time to say, “Hurry back, Dickie. You’re honestly driving me crazy with this laying around, all-day nappy-time bullshit.”
Just being Floyd.
And I loved him for it. He wasn’t about to sit there and cry, mope around like there was no tomorrow. No, Floyd knew damn well—same as me—what no tomorrow really looked like; we saw it every day. We lived by the Homicide Bureau’s motto: Every day above ground is a good day. As long as I stayed above ground, he wasn’t going to cry. In fact, it was more likely he’d smuggle in pizza and beer by the end of the week, pull up a chair, kick his feet up on the bed, and ask what’s good on TV. Or he’d be planning to break me out, find something fun to do.
How could I not love him? The man at the door in his cargo shorts and a gray hooded sweatshirt today, Ray-Bans protecting his eyes from the fluorescent lighting. My partner and friend, Pretty Boy Floyd, with the attention span of a puppy, and the charisma to go along with it. If I could only get him house-broke.
“You are coming back, aren’t you, Dickie? . . .
“Dickie?”
IN THE CITY OF CROSSES is a short story that takes place chronologically between the first and second books in the Dickie Floyd Detective Novels series, A Good Bunch of Men and Door to a Dark Room, filling the gap for the year Dickie is off recovering from gunshot wounds.
Floyd's phone is found at the scene of a murder in New Mexico.
Dickie is still off duty after being shot when two detectives knock on his door and begin asking questions. A man has been killed, and the detectives have homed in on Floyd. Dickie assures them there's been a big misunderstanding, but when Floyd is nowhere to be found, only more questions arise.
A manhunt begins, and it doesn't look good for Floyd and his new partner, Mongo.
GET YOUR BONUS STORY HERE:
IN THE CITY OF CROSSES
For my fellow bulldogs of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau.
To my beautiful wife, Lesli
and my daughters Jami and Randi Jo,
without whose love and support, this book could not have been written.
And for Patricia Barrick Brennan, my dear friend and editor, who motivates and encourages me, and keeps me flying straight between the margins.
Every scene had its story, and its secrets. The secrets were what kept me awake at night, thirsting for answers. Though mostly insatiable, I fed the cravings like an addict, no matter the cost. The fix was always more death. A fresh kill. A new crime scene. Another story that needed to be told and heard. To inhabit a newly christened sacred ground and allow my mind to drift beyond the immediately tangible. To feel the presence of spirits whose secrets swirled, whispering clues for those who listened closely.
1
THEY WERE EASY prey. Complacent, like a herd of sheep, unaware of their vulnerability. Oblivious to the presence of a predator.
Concealed in darkness, he watched them. He relished the power he had over them, knowing it was his choice whether they lived or died, not theirs. Not the decision of God or Satan or some bitch named Karma. It was his.
He almost pitied them for their weakness.
Almost.
The mothers, busy on their cell phones, unaware that their children trailed behind, babbling, whining, some staring at phones of their own. He could easily pull one into his car and be gone, whisk. How long would it take an oblivious mother to notice? The self-centered bitches were ignorant of his grace.
He waited.
Leonard watched them all, women, girls, and boys. He had no desire for mature women, though the idea of young girls stirred him greatly. In prison, he had managed his own sexual gratification, with only the occasional aid of another man. Young men only, though. Those who were new in the system and as frightened and malleable as he had been when he was locked up at age sixteen.
The real thrill had always been the stalking. Creeping through the darkened homes of others, watching strangers as they slept. Death was their houseguest, though most of them never knew it; they were the fortunate ones. Those who did know, only knew for an instant during their final moments.
Leonard didn’t always kill; most times he had not. The first murder had been the result of panic—he had been only thirteen. The others were by choice.
An electric thrill shot through Leonard as he thought of the fear in the eyes of his chosen ones. How they begged, squirmed, tried to escape. Their efforts were futile.
His preference was strangulation; it was so intimate. Bare hands allowed him to feel their final pulses, smell their last breaths, stare into their unbelieving eyes. Some of the killings had been more violent, a swift and easy death with a single blow to the skull. Once he had used a hammer; another time it had been a pipe. Each experience had been an education. Though the more violent attacks were efficient, and there had been little suffering, they had been less gratifying.
Leonard was more compassionate than the news stories had painted him. Always, he kissed them goodbye. Most would not have been capable of understanding the intimacy of their death, nor of appreciating it. But he knew, and he wanted to share his affection with these chosen ones. It was his gift to the newly dead.
Leonard had dreamed of killing during his years of confinement, treasuring and reliving his memories of those he had watched, those he had killed. He remembered them all. They were his. They would always be his.
He thought of the first, an elderly woman alone in her bed. He had meant only to observe her, but she had awakened and begun to scream, leaving him no choice. There had been no desire for sex, although he had explored her lifeless body. When Leonard was eventually arrested, three years later, they didn’t even ask him about her murder. Nor did they ask about any of the others, not even the five-year-old boy who had lived—and died—right next door. Leonard thought the boy’s mother might have been considered a suspect, but he never heard what became of her.
His only arrest had come after he killed his mother. By that time, he had beco
me efficient at killing. His mother had deserved her death, and she had not been entitled to his grace; he did not kiss her goodbye. He turned himself in; what else could he do? It had been just the two of them all of his life, and now she was dead. This he pondered for hours as he sat on the porch, a cordless telephone in his hand and his mother’s body cooling inside the house. He knew the call would end the killing.
Or would it?
His lawyer said his mother had sexually abused him, had tormented him physically and psychologically. “What monster would do this to her own son?” the attorney had asked of the jury, rhetorically. They had bought it. They believed the adolescent when he took the stand and allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks. While on the stand, he had kept his head low and softly answered the questions. Poor boy. He had been sentenced as an adult, but his life had been spared. He received twenty-five years and was sent off to Raiford, Florida’s infamous penitentiary.
Once Leonard understood what was required to survive in prison, he considered his time there mostly tolerable. He had learned quickly.
The last ten years had been wonderful. He had been assigned a new cellmate, Whitey Blanchard. Whitey, a member of the Irish mafia, had been the youngest man ever convicted of a mafia-related murder in Florida. He was a legend in the crime world, having taken out two top hitmen of a rival family. The two mafiosi were known to be vicious and precise, always wary, yet a mere boy had walked in and popped them both as they sat among friends in a crowded diner. Then he casually walked out. Leonard and Whitey were nearly the same age, and, over the years, they had become like brothers. Each enjoyed sharing with the other details of their crimes, reliving and relishing the memories, the accomplishments.
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