While Bandoni radioed for another car and Cohen went with Schumacher to get some Kevlar, I stepped out and released Clyde from his carrier. I strapped his vest on him, snapped on his lead then reached into the truck for my own vest.
Cohen returned.
“Thanks for backing us up,” he said.
“What did you expect?”
“Just didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t. Just don’t want the paperwork if you trip up.”
“Fuck you,” he said, grinning.
I smiled back. “Ditto.”
Another slap of wind swung down the street, herding dust and trash. A can rattled along the asphalt before banging into a curb. Overhead, hard clouds lowered like the lid of a trap, spitting a few drops of icy rain. I blinked sleet from my eyelashes and told myself my bad feeling was just a normal case of the jitters.
His eyes on the house, Cohen rose on the balls of his feet and dropped. Swung his arms. “What are things coming to when my backup is a railway cop and a furball?”
“Best deal you’ll ever get,” I said.
We stood on the street, sheltered by the truck and alternately looking at each other and at the house until the precinct car came up the street and parked around the corner. Two officers with shotguns got out and took up positions behind the car, one near the rear tire, the other leaning across the hood. From where they’d parked, they had a clear angle on the back door.
Bandoni returned with Schumacher.
“You and I got point,” he said to Cohen. “Schumacher, Parnell—you two and the fleabag hang back a little. Give us room to work. We go inside, you guys move up to the porch and make sure no one else joins the fun. Things go to hell, Schumacher calls in backup and Parnell sticks with us.”
Schumacher and I snapped a simultaneous “Yes, sir.”
“Okay,” Bandoni said. “Let’s go before someone looks out the window and realizes we’re about to crash the party.”
We jogged across the street and up the walk in a loose group. Cohen motioned for Schumacher and me to stay in the yard while he and Bandoni went up the stairs. Bandoni took a spot to the side of the door while Cohen rang the bell.
The music stopped. Cohen had his hand up as if to ring the bell again when someone shouted inside.
“Hold on. I’m coming.”
A woman’s voice. Strained.
Cohen dropped his right hand to his waist. With his left, he held his badge up to the peephole. The door swung inward, and Melody Weber looked out. The porch light lit her up like a battered diva. Her pale face sported a new bruise, and her eyes were swollen and red. The bandage was gone off the cut on her chin; the wound shone a vivid red.
Bastard had been at it again.
“Hello, ma’am. Detective Cohen with the Denver Police Department. Is Mr. Merkel at home?”
Melody’s body twitched as if touched by a live wire. She glanced over her shoulder toward the back of the house, then faced Cohen again.
“Um, no?”
“Are you the owner of the home? Melody Weber?” Cohen’s voice wore kid gloves. “Maybe I can leave a message for him, Ms. Weber. Can I come in for just a moment?”
Melody’s face went ash beneath the bruising. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She started to close the door.
Cohen stopped it with his hand and insinuated himself halfway into the room. “We’ll just take a quick look around and be out of your hair, Ms. Weber. A simple welfare check. We do it all the time.”
“No, I—”
But Cohen stepped the rest of the way inside. I couldn’t see Melody’s reaction when Bandoni loomed suddenly in the doorway to follow Cohen. But I heard her startled “Oh!”
Schumacher and I moved up the stairs to the porch with Clyde. The icy rain thickened, edging toward snow.
I wiped my face with the sleeve of my coat and peered through the open doorway at a cramped, filthy living room. Melody stood with Cohen in the middle of the room, her arms crossed over her chest as if to protect herself. Bandoni had maneuvered until his back was to the wall and he could see both the hallway leading to the back of the house and the stairs going up.
“You can’t stay,” Melody said, the words so soft they were almost white noise. “Whip won’t like it.”
“You’re injured,” Cohen said. “Did someone hit you?”
“Not like that,” Melody said. “I mean, I had it coming. For being stupid, like.”
“What he did is a crime, Ms. Weber. How about we take Mr. Merkel with us to the station, have a talk with him?”
“No. No.”
“We can press charges on your behalf.”
“No,” she whispered. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Or we can escort you and your daughter to a shelter. He won’t be able to reach you there.”
“I don’t need—”
Cohen and Bandoni stiffened as a large man with a bald head and tattoos came down the hallway.
“Slow down, pal,” Bandoni said.
The man’s glance took in the two detectives, then Schumacher and me with Clyde at the door. He glared at Cohen. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Mr. Merkel?” Bandoni asked.
“No, I ain’t Mister-Fucking-Merkel. Who the fuck are you?”
“Detectives Cohen and Bandoni. And you are . . . ?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“You want to answer it at the station, asshole?” Bandoni growled.
“Where’s Alfred Merkel?” asked Cohen in a reasonable voice.
“He ain’t here. Come back next week or something.”
“Frankie . . .” Melody said.
“Keep your trap shut, Mel,” Frankie said.
“Did you hit Ms. Weber, Frankie?” Cohen asked.
“I don’t hit women.”
“But your pal Merkel does?” A cold threat had entered Cohen’s voice, like a round being chambered. “You know where he is?”
Melody raised her hands in a pleading gesture. “He’s just with—”
“Stow it, you cow,” Frankie said, too stupid to hear the steel in Cohen’s voice. “I look to you cops like a fucking babysitter? Try Tony’s Bar.”
Cohen ignored him. “Ms. Weber, is your daughter here?”
Melody sucked in a breath. “Why are you asking about Liz?”
“Merkel somewhere with the little girl, maybe?” Bandoni asked. “How about we ask your pal in the kitchen? You, Frankie. Yell at him to join us in here.”
“Merkel ain’t here,” Frankie said. “And Petes don’t know nothing I don’t know.”
“We need to see the girl,” Cohen said.
“What’s the fuck with some girl? I don’t know nothing about some kid.”
“You better figure it out,” Bandoni said. “We ain’t leaving till we see her.”
From outside the house, in the back, a cop yelled. “Police. Stop!”
“Your pal Petes trying to beat feet?” Bandoni asked.
“You guys got a warrant?” Frankie had turned the corner from pissed to outraged. “I know my rights. You don’t got a warrant, you gotta leave.”
“Welfare check, asshole,” Bandoni said. “We don’t need a warrant. Now where’s Liz Weber?”
From somewhere below our feet, a sound rose. A tortured moan that promised whoever gave voice to it was in unfathomable pain. The moan lifted to a cry then suddenly chopped off.
For a moment, none of us moved. The wind slapped the house. Trees scratched at the window. One of the garbage cans keeled over and rattled down the drive.
Melody sucked in air and fisted her greasy hair.
“The fuck was that?” Bandoni asked, his eyes drilling the floor as if he could see through it.
I signaled for Schumacher to radio for backup, then Clyde and I stepped into the living room.
“Melody,” Cohen said. “Where’s your daughter? Where’s Liz?”
Melody looked at Frank as if for guidance. Frankie reached behind his
back with his right hand.
“Don’t even think it,” Cohen said.
Bandoni lifted his gun. “Hands up where I can see them. Now, asshole.”
Frankie brought his hand back around. It came with a .45. “You die,” he said.
Bandoni fired a single shot with his service revolver, opening a hole in Frankie’s stomach. Frankie crumpled against the wall and slid to the floor, leaving a dark trail on the dirty-white wall. He gaped at Bandoni.
“Damn it,” Bandoni said.
Cohen kicked Frankie’s .45 away, sent it spinning under the sofa.
The crack of a shotgun blast boomed behind the house followed immediately by three more.
Melody screamed.
Someone’s emergency alarm began bleeping over the radio.
Dispatch came on. “Car 114, are you okay?”
The radio crackled. “Officer down! Officer down!”
Bandoni disappeared down the hall toward the back.
Dispatch was on the radio again. “Officer Wiley down. All units respond.”
“You got Frankie,” Cohen said to me before he followed Bandoni.
Frankie lay on his side against the wall, drumming his heels on the floor. He thrashed his bald, tattooed head. Blood seeped from his stomach. When his wild eyes caught sight of me, he screamed.
“They shot me! You stupid cunt, help me up! I’ll kill those motherfuckers.”
The dust of Iraq boiled up until I couldn’t see. Shots echoed from somewhere beyond the road. Men yelled and dove for their vehicles.
“Maybe our day to die,” Gonzo said from where he’d ducked behind the wheel of the seven-ton. “Ooo Rah!”
Clyde barked and barked, a steady beat that pulled me back to Melody’s house.
“Help me, you bitch!” Frankie screamed.
I ordered Clyde to guard while I retrieved Frankie’s .45 from under the couch, verified there wasn’t a round in the chamber, then shoved the gun into my belt. I dragged a floor lamp over to Frankie and told him to shut up and hold still. As soon as he complied, I handcuffed both of his wrists to the floor lamp.
Fury boiled into his eyes. He tried to grab the lamp and swing it. Clyde bared his teeth and stuck his muzzle in Frankie’s face.
“Lie down,” I said to Frankie.
Frankie fell back, away from Clyde. The lamp crashed down beside him.
My radio flared in and out of life as dispatch handled the priority code. The second officer behind the house was still responding.
“Who’s in the basement?” I asked Melody.
Melody wailed. “Make it stop! Make. It. Stop!”
Shouts and thumps came from the kitchen. Chairs scraped and something hit the floor hard.
“Bandoni’s got one punk in the kitchen,” Cohen said over the radio. “I’m going downstairs.”
“Melody!” I gripped her shoulder. “Damn it, don’t fall apart. Where is Liz?”
Melody dissolved into tears. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the ratty sofa that ran the length of the room.
A door slammed in the back. A shot came from the kitchen followed by two more.
“Officer down,” Bandoni said over the radio. He was panting hard. “Officer needs assistance.” On our car-to-car channel, his voice weak, he said, “Parnell. Cohen needs backup.”
Below our feet, as if rising from the depths of hell, came another long bubbling shriek that opened my stomach.
I pushed Melody behind the sofa and ordered her to lie flat and stay there until I came for her. In the doorway, Schumacher looked stunned. Like a kitten tossed into the lion’s den.
Another round of shooting came from the backyard.
“Fuck!” someone screamed on the radio.
“Schumacher!” I waited until his eyes met mine. “I’m going after Cohen. You need to clear the upstairs.”
“I—”
“Backup is coming. But we can’t wait. That little girl is still missing.”
Something came back into Schumacher’s eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now!”
Without waiting for his response, I touched Clyde’s lead, and together we headed down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Bandoni,” I called. “You clear in there?”
“Clear,” he said.
We paused outside the room anyway. I signaled Clyde to go through the doorway. He alerted, but his bearing told me there was nothing imminently dangerous. I followed him in.
A skinhead lay sprawled on his back across the kitchen table, handcuffs dangling from one wrist. A second skinhead lay curled on the floor. Both had a single bullet wound between the eyes. A Tek-9 lay nearby.
Bandoni sat in the corner near the back door, eyeing us blearily. Blood ran from his shoulder. His gun lay on the floor next to him.
I grabbed a dish towel and pressed it to his shoulder.
“Jesus, that hurts,” he said.
The towel turned red.
“Guy on the floor came up from the basement with Merkel,” he said. “Merkel shot me and went out the back.”
I took Bandoni’s good hand and pressed it against the towel to hold it in place. I pulled my gun and approached the basement stairs. “Cohen went down before those two came up?”
“Told him to wait.” Bandoni panted. “Dumb kid thinks he’s Superman.”
At the doorway, I peered down. A single bulb with a pull chain lit a narrow wooden staircase. Something had set the bulb to swaying, and shadows bounced around. A charnel house odor wafted up, carrying the smells of urine and feces and the rusty-nail weight of blood.
“Cohen!” I whispered on the car-to-car channel.
Nothing.
“Anyone else go down the stairs?” I asked Bandoni.
He tried to keep his eyes open. “No.”
I got on the radio, told dispatch I was going into the basement after Detective Cohen. I cupped Clyde’s lead in my hands, one fist in front of the other, my thumbs on the lead to provide braking pressure if Clyde got too far ahead. Then I eased the tension on the leash, silently giving him the search command.
He went down the stairs light and quick. Unalarmed. I followed less gracefully, the wooden steps creaking beneath my weight.
When Clyde reached the bottom of the stairs, I used pressure from my thumbs to stop him. He looked at me for his next command, and I dropped my hand, palm down. He lay down.
As soon as I reached the base of the stairs, I crouched next to him. Cold air wafted over us from an open window at the far end of the room. Another bare bulb lit the immediate area. Nazi propaganda posters were thumbtacked to the tar paper on either side. A gun rack, holding a single shotgun, hung on the wall to my right. On my left, boxes of food and cases of bottled water were piled on the floor next to stacks of ammo boxes. For the coming Nazi apocalypse, presumably.
Beyond these items I could just make out similar stacks with hard edges and black recesses. Good hiding places. But Clyde gave no indication that anything threatened.
I strained my ears. Upstairs, men shouted, floorboards groaned. Ahead of us, wind whistled through the open window. Other than that, the basement was quiet as a tomb.
Gonzo’s voice echoed in my ears. Maybe our day to die.
I gave Clyde the search signal with the lead, and he took off, tail raised. We leapfrogged forward, clearing the spaces between stacks of food and other supplies, stopping every few feet to resurvey the space until we were nearly at the far end. There, cold light from the back porch shone through the high window. A pool of wet glistened underneath, where the weather came in. A ladder leaned against the wall. Next to that, the room went right with a hard corner.
Again I downed Clyde and crouched next to him, listening for any sounds. Nothing. But a chill wafted from around the corner that had nothing to do with the sleet coming through the window. The skin tightened at the nape of my neck. Clyde pressed his ears back.
Someone had died down here tonight. Not in the way of the men upstairs in the kitchen.
Those men had brought it on themselves.
This was different. This was evil.
I touched Clyde’s back, willing calm through my hand. Clyde looked up at me.
“We’re still good,” I whispered. I pushed myself to my feet. But instead of signaling him to go ahead, I unsnapped his lead and pulled my gun. “We go together, boy.”
I peered around the corner.
The faint light revealed a nude—and newly deceased—black man bound in a chair. From the looks of things, he had been stabbed, burned with something bigger than cigarettes, and bludgeoned. His fingers had been severed, as had his testicles.
He lifted his head and looked at me.
Ice went through my intestines. Clyde pressed against me with such force he nearly knocked me over. I looked away, sucked in my breath, and looked again.
The man was motionless. And very dead. I’d only imagined him looking at me.
I slid out my Maglite and flicked it on.
He was young. Early twenties. This had to be the PI, Thomas A. Brown.
My heart fisted. First his sister, taken by the skinheads. Then his brother in a rail yard accident. And now Thomas. Was there a mother and father somewhere to mourn the loss of their children?
Scattered all around the body, on the floor next to the knives and the lighters and the shears, next to a bloodied ice pick and several grill lighters, were empty beer bottles and bags of popcorn and crushed cookie boxes.
Nothing like a little torture to give you an appetite.
Beyond the dead man, the room continued into darkness.
Gingerly, Clyde and I skirted the chair and its gruesome burden and moved toward the back.
“Cohen,” I whispered into the radio. No response. I softened my knees and pressed my hand to Clyde’s neck. “Seek!”
Clyde moved ahead. Instead of bounding forward, he went slowly, as if sensing my need to touch him. Maybe he needed my hand, too.
More supplies were stacked in the back. Cardboard food boxes, mainly. Add it to what was in the basement’s main room, it was enough to supply an army. Which was probably the intent.
The boxes stopped a foot short of the back wall. Clyde thrust his nose into the gap, then sat. I lifted the light.
Cohen. Lying on his side and wedged between the wall and the boxes. Hastily I set down the flashlight and holstered my gun, grabbed Cohen’s feet, and pulled him free.
Blood on the Tracks (Sydney Rose Parnell Series Book 1) Page 22