Blondie sat aghast, wide-eyed with her mouth open, her hands out in front of her as if trying to deflect the spattering of blood now adorning her white blouse.
Leonard felt the man collapsing beneath him. He released him, the sounds of his final groans and gurgles fading as the Russkie crumpled onto the carpeted floor. A quick check of his waistline revealed no weapon, which Leonard found odd. He was certain the man had had one beneath his shirt the other time they met. No matter, he would never have had the chance to get it if he had it, thanks to Leonard’s quick and efficient attack. He stepped over the dead gypsy and walked toward the woman with her big mouth hanging open, a wad of gum dangling at the corner of her bright red lips. She began pushing her chair back, rolling it away from the desk she sat behind. Leonard lunged across the desk with his blood-covered knife leading the way. The blade caught her left breast as she continued to retreat. Leonard was now prone across the desk with only one foot on the floor. As he pushed himself up, he caught the glimpse of an object coming down on his head. She yelled just as something crashed over his head, and the sound of a loud bell rang in his ears. For a moment it was dark, and then the light returned, though he found it difficult to focus. He was aware of movement and he lunged again and grabbed the gypsy woman around her waist.
She yelled and cussed and continued to hit him on his head and back, but now it was only her fists. The heavy object that had dazed him was no longer in play. Leonard knew she would not be able to inflict any more damage without a weapon. She continued toward the door, Leonard holding on and being dragged behind her. But he knew he had her now, she would be his in a matter of moments.
The Russian woman stumbled and fell to the ground. Leonard pounced, like a wrestler overtaking his opponent. It was then he realized the dead gypsy, the crooked Russkie car thief, was beneath her on the floor. It was his dead body she had fallen over. Her boss, or boyfriend, or pimp.
The slutty Russian went limp and whimpered in defeat. There was no more fight in her.
Leonard tossed the bloody knife aside and pulled her arms behind her back. She didn’t resist. He reached around his back and removed the handcuffs he had purchased at the uniform store and placed them on her. He had been handcuffed hundreds of times himself while serving time, and he was familiar with the process. Once she was secured, Leonard sat back and rested on her buttocks.
“G’head, you dirty bastard, hev your vay to me,” she said, with the same accent with which Grigori had spoken.
Leonard frowned. “With me . . . it’s ‘have your way with me.’”
“Vhatever. Just do vhat you hev to do and let me be.”
“Shut up, whore. You have nothing I want.”
“Oh? Nothing? I hev cash. You can hev it all. You can hev me too, I gladly give you vhatever you vant, and you can take money too. Ve hev cash.”
“How much?”
She paused a moment. “Thousand, maybe two a thousand, in the drawer.”
“What about the safe?”
“No safe. You take cash, and you do vhat you vant to me. I saw how you look. How you say, hoany. Like you no have voman long time. You come from the jail, no?”
Leonard stood and pulled her up by the handcuffs and a clump of her hair.
“Goddamnit!”
She stumbled over the gypsy as Leonard shoved her toward her desk. He stood her next to it and came around the front of her, now standing face to face. He could see the age beneath her makeup and he smelled the musky scent of her body and liquor on her breath. His eyes drifted from hers to the desk and back. “Where’s the money?”
The blonde woman with the blood-soaked blouse pointed to the far side of the desk by jutting her nose in that direction. “Bottom drawer, in a metal box in the back. Under my sveater and purse.”
Leonard pulled out the drawer and removed her sweater and purse and lifted a metal box from the back. He set it on the desk and opened it to see it was half full of cash. He picked up one bundle and saw it was hundreds. There were two bundles of fifties, and two more of twenties. There were several identifications at the bottom of the box. He saw that two were the woman’s, each bearing a different name, and three others featured Grigori’s face with various aliases. Leonard turned the box upside down to dump the IDs on the desk, and returned the bundles of cash into the box. He picked it up and looked at her. She had streaks of black running down her cheeks and smudges of red lipstick around her mouth and on her chin. Her eyes held contempt, not fear.
“Where’s the gun?”
She shook her head.
He didn’t ask twice. He knew how these Russkies could be. He punched her in the face with a hard right fist and she hit the ground. He stepped over and kicked her in the stomach. She let out a grunt but didn’t cry or scream. He left her there squirming on her side, her hands secured behind her, and returned to the desk.
The top right drawer was the first he opened, and he didn’t need to open the others. Sitting right on top was a black nine-millimeter pistol. It felt good in his hand, the first he had ever held. He felt powerful, invincible, and he smiled.
He returned to the blonde and pointed the gun at her head. “Say goodbye, darling.”
She sniffled slightly, and her body jerked as if she was holding in emotion.
Leonard thought about the sound of a gunshot and wondered how far it would be heard in the city. He had no idea, and it gave him pause. On the one hand, it would be a perfect time to learn to shoot, and to witness firsthand what happens when you blast a cap into someone’s skull. But then there was the noise. It was daytime, a weekday, and people were all about. He would need to cross the boulevard and get to his car unnoticed, and a gunshot now might draw unwanted attention. He looked about until he spotted his knife on the floor. He stepped over and picked it up, and then he returned to straddle her head. “Now, bitch, you can say it for real.”
But before she said anything he thrust the knife into her throat and watched her eyes pop open in surprise. He held the pistol in his other hand. He looked around but didn’t see a place where he could set it that wasn’t covered with blood. Without a free hand, he was unable to grip her head to finish the job properly by slicing her throat, So, he pulled the knife out and jammed it back in over and over until he hit an artery and blood jetted out of the side of her neck. Leonard jumped out of the path of its stream and stood back watching until it petered out and only dripped to the floor. He loved the appearance of blood in any form, but he especially enjoyed seeing it squirt from an artery until the pressure was gone and it slowly stopped flowing at all. He was surprised she had been so silent throughout. These Russkies were a tough bunch; he had to give them that.
Leonard removed the handcuffs and wiped the blood from them on her blouse. Satisfied, he stepped over one dead gypsy and then the other. He turned the lights off and walked out into the bright midday Hollywood sunshine, a smile on his face.
The thought occurred to him he should have taken a picture for Whitey.
Floyd was eating a burger at the food court when I walked up and saw a blob of ketchup drip onto the tray in front of him. “Easy, killer.”
He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and nodded toward an empty seat. I pulled it out and looked over at Mongo who had nothing other than empty wrappers and a large paper cup in front of him, and his watchful eyes on me. I made a mental note to ask Floyd about him sometime, what his beef was with me. Or maybe he just has a shitty personality.
Then I thought of a reason to make him speak to me. “Have you heard anything from your niece?”
“Cousin. She’s looking into it.”
I just nodded. Why bother with this guy?
I turned my attention to Floyd. “Want to hear about some weird shit that happened to me?”
“When?”
“Last night. Actually, I had some weird shit happen last night, and then some very different weird shit this morning.”
He took a swig of his soda. “Well, hell yeah, Dickie. There�
��s nothing we love more than weird shit. Let’s hear it.”
I started with last night, told the story for the second time in as many hours about the car with unregistered license plates that sat unoccupied up the street but left right after I arrived. He listened without comment, though he appeared to be measuring every word I said. I could see the wheels turning and I knew he’d have some ideas. When I finished, I waited for his response.
But all he said was, “And what about this morning?”
At first, I was surprised he didn’t have any commentary on the news of last night, and then I realized he was interrogating me. That’s what cops do, all of us. With each other, with our spouses, with everyone. It’s one of the reasons most of us were divorced. Floyd would let me get all of it out and then circle back around and ask more questions before offering solutions.
“Nothing exciting like that, it’s just something weird.”
He waited.
“The shrink.”
“Doc James? What, she still thinks you’re nuts? Or she revealed to you her feelings for me? She loves me, you know.”
I smiled. “Actually, she revealed her feelings for me.”
He grinned. “You don’t say?”
“I mean, that’s how I’m picking it up. Have you seen her lately?”
“I had the mandatory three sessions after our shooting—your shooting—but nothing since then. Amazingly, Cindy isn’t driving me nuts lately and without you around I seem to be more stable. So, no, I haven’t bothered going. Why do you ask?”
“She’s changed her hair color and maybe has lost some weight. Not that she was ever fat, but now she looks terrific, fit. Also, she seems to focus on my impending divorce and asks weird questions like how am I adjusting to being single. Also, she encourages me to continue our sessions.”
“That all sounds like normal shrink shit to me, Dickie, as far as normal shrink shit goes. I never thought of her as fat.”
“Her skirts seem a little shorter and she seems to move her legs around a lot, crossing one over the other and switching, constantly, as if begging me to have a peek.”
Now I had his full attention. “No shit, huh? What’d you see?”
“I was afraid to look. I mean, she’s staring right at me, looking me directly in the eyes, but I can see her legs going back and forth. It’s like she’s daring me to glance down.”
“She wants you to look, Dickie, the trampy little crazy cop doctor. I wonder if she’s single. You suppose she’s single?”
I shrugged.
“Well,” he said, as he stood and began gathering his trash, “we have a lot of ground to cover on this piece of shit case of yours. We’re meeting Gentry at the dead broad’s apartment at two.”
“You better get crackin’.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’m on overtime, Dickie. From now until at least midnight, maybe later. I bet I write 120 hours this month, just to piss off your captain.”
I smiled, knowing he always at least doubled what they allowed and somehow got away with it. He was shooting to quadruple it this month, and I didn’t doubt he would.
He lowered his Ray-Bans over his eyes and walked away with Mongo in tow. It occurred to me I had screwed up by mentioning the doc. Floyd could never concentrate on anything other than women while in their presence or while speaking of them. If I knew my ex-partner, he would ponder the Doctor James situation for the next two hours or so, and then he’d shift to my problem with the possible watcher. Once he processed and analyzed the information I provided, and then reanalyzed it, he’d give me a call.
Meanwhile, I’d pay close attention to my surroundings.
25
THE APARTMENT WAS decorated in white carpeting with contrasting black furniture, leather sofas and chairs and metal framed tables with glass tops. Black framed mirrors adorned all except one wall which was constructed of glass from floor to ceiling, offering an unrestricted view of the ocean. The pièce de résistance was the bar, and that was where Floyd stood enjoying the scenery outside. He eyed the Bombay and thought of his old partner, Dickie, who did occasionally enjoy his gin. As did he, on the rare occasion. Fancy dinners required it. Floyd would enjoy a glass of red wine with a steak, usually something bold like an old vine California red zinfandel, or a cabernet. But before dinner—while posing at the bar in his suit and tie or a cardigan—he’d have one or two gin and tonics while enjoying a conversation with his guest or a neighboring patron or bartender. He found himself more open to conversation with strangers at five-star restaurants where he mingled with a different class of people. Floyd enjoyed listening to someone tell of their business ventures, their accomplishments or connections, and then seeing their faces when he answered the question that would always follow, “So, what do you do?”
Other times he might enjoy a gin would be on a Saturday afternoon while tending his barbecue, shirtless, in the backyard. As long as he wasn’t on call. When on call, he was disciplined; he’d never consider having anything to drink. Other than maybe a couple, four, or five beers. Occasionally more, but not always.
Floyd wasn’t entirely opposed to having a gin while working, but it was early in the day and there was still plenty to do once the search of Lisa Williams’s Marina apartment was concluded.
His attention was drawn to a blonde who seemed to appear from nowhere, standing on the dock not far from where Floyd gazed through the glass. Standing in her bikini bottoms and a cutoff t-shirt, she seemed to be looking directly at him through the wall of glass. He smiled and batted his eyes, but then she turned away.
Mongo came up from behind him and set a legal-sized envelope on the bar. There wasn’t much in it. “I think we’re done here, boss.”
Floyd looked around at Mongo, then he pushed away from the bar and surveyed the apartment. It occurred to him that this was just what Dickie needed, a place at the Marina. Floyd could visit him on the weekends to escape the constraints of family life now and then. Though he loved his wife and kids, he almost envied his partner for being single and having virtually no responsibility. He thought of Dickie sitting on his balcony, and recalled the situation with someone possibly watching him. He thought about the news of a different vehicle being outside Dickie’s apartment last night, a car with cold plates, according to Dickie. Something had been bothering him ever since Dickie told him the story, but he hadn’t yet put his finger on what it was.
He looked back toward the dock but the bikini-clad blonde was gone. His eyes quickly scanned the yachts and sailboats but she was nowhere to be seen. Well, then, back to business.
“What do we have for evidence?”
Mongo reached into the envelope. “Not a lot. An address book is probably our best bet. At least maybe we can find someone who knew her. Other than that, a few odds and ends.” He began lifting one item at a time and replacing it with another as he summarized his findings. “Got a toothbrush for DNA, an old phone that is dead and probably has no service, a charger so that maybe we can power it up, a few sex toys from the nightstand—”
“Sex toys?”
“I was thinking maybe DNA.”
Floyd made a sound like “Hmpf” and leaned over to peek inside the envelope.
Phil Gentry from the crime lab appeared in the hallway. “I think we’re done here, boys.”
“Photos and prints, everything wrapped up?”
“Everything,” he said, answering Floyd while his eyes scanned the room. “I don’t know how much good we’ve done. There are a lot of latent prints, but you know how that goes, most of them will probably be hers.”
“Hey, we do the best we can. You want to do the car here or should we have it impounded?”
“It’s up to you,” Phil said, “either way.”
Floyd looked at Mongo who shrugged, signifying his thoughts on the matter.
“You know what, Phil, we probably better go ahead and impound it. I don’t know what else Ray and that idiot ex-partner of mine are going to want to do with it other tha
n prints. You never know with those two.”
Phil was smiling. “Richard’s back?”
“Yeah, Dickie’s back alright, and he’s knee-deep in this bizarre case. Plus he has someone following him around, his wife’s left him for another woman, and he’s in love with his shrink. For fuck’s sake.”
Phil chuckled. “I haven’t seen him around,” he said, and then paused. “Wait, did you say his wife left him for another woman?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, Phil.”
Lab Technician Phil Gentry slung his camera bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door. Before he stepped out, he looked back at Floyd. “You know, they should make a movie about you two.”
“Me and Mongo?”
He grinned. “Okay, maybe all three of you.”
My cell rang as I sat alone in Unsolveds thinking about Valerie. It was Floyd. “What’s up?”
“We’re finished at the hooker’s pad.”
“How’d it go?”
“There’s some hot babes around here, I’ll tell you that. Her apartment has a nice view, and I’m not talking about the boats, Dickie. You should look into getting an apartment here; it could be a constant source of adult entertainment. Maybe you could get her pad, now that it’ll be available, and I could be your part-time roommate. You want me to check and see if they’re taking names, starting a list or anything?”
“Like I could afford it. Did you guys get anything?”
“No, not really. I mean, it doesn’t seem like someone lived here, to be honest. Are you sure she didn’t hook out of this place?”
“I’m not sure of anything. You’re the one who said it didn’t appear she did.”
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 49