Furyk hadn’t said a word while Merrill told him the story. His tea was untouched and his stomach felt heavy, his heart heavier. “I’m sorry, Merrill. Sorry that he did that to you.”
Her smile returned. “I loved him. In spite of that, I loved him. But not what he was doing with those girls. That was wrong.” Tears streamed down her face, catching on the smile like rain on a sunny day. Furyk reached over and put his hand on her wrist, then stood and put his arm around her shoulders while she sat. Merrill curled both arms up in front of her and leaned in to his stomach and began to sob. Heavy, hard, loud sobs. His shirt absorbed the tears and he cradled her head. They stayed that way for many minutes, until the heaving had subsided and her breath was slow and normal again. She leaned back and Furyk let her go. Standing silently, she took the two tea cups back into the house. Furyk watched her go and planned a way to get Brant.
Chapter One Hundred One
No witnesses, no shell casings, no prints. Margolin was murdered by a ghost, except that Prole had seen the ghost’s arm and almost been shot at the same time. Furyk wouldn’t answer his goddamn phone and the Wick woman was still gone. A great day of detective work. It was almost eight o’clock and she kicked off her shoes in the living room and crossed her ankles on the footstool. The beer tasted good and the asshole next door hadn’t started playing his new age music yet so she could watch some TV in quiet. It was just background noise, the stupid sitcom not interesting her. She needed to know what Margolin had told Furyk, whether there was anything there that would help. The girl, Felicia, killed Wick because he was pimping her out. Someone tried to kill Furyk – good luck with that – because he was poking around. Now Margolin was dead. Because he was going to roll on whoever had the most to lose? She drained the beer and didn’t know anything more than before. Aiming from the chair, she tossed the glass toward the large plastic bin she used for trash. Except for a few drops that splashed on her leg as the bottle flew through the air, it was a perfect swish. Nothing but net.
The knock on the door kept her from going to the fridge and deciding between another beer and something frozen to eat. Wondering who it was helped her finish the cycle of thinking on the murders. If there were someone with clout responsible for making the girl and Margolin dead, and gunning for Furyk, maybe she should be worried too. Killing cops was only something people who feared them avoided doing. The gun was in its holster on the kitchen table. She pulled it out, flipped off the safety, and stood by the side of the front door.
“Who the hell is it?” She didn’t look through the peephole – why make a nice easy target for the guy?
“Nice to see you too.” She pulled open the door and had to restrain herself from shooting Furyk in the foot to teach him a lesson.
Chapter One Hundred Two
Brant found his hook into Furyk. The pussy had opened a sandwich shop, Brant knew. He’d also managed to keep his investigative chops by helping out the stupid schlubs who asked him to, and that brought him into Brant’s domain occasionally. There were records of him getting involved in a couple of things that led to police involvement. Stupid sentimental crap, where some sad sap begs for a break because someone kicked his dog or cut in front of them in line at the grocery store. And Furyk liked to step in. He was soft.
Brant called Cordoza and told him what to do. It was dark by the time Cordoza got to Studio City and parked across the street from the mall with the sandwich shop, using the gas station to watch the comings and goings. If he’d look into the convenience store where Hamid handled a stream of customers, and if he’d been psychic, Cordoza would have appreciated that he was a few feet away from the man who could lead him directly to Merrill. He kept his gaze on the sandwich shop.
At 9:00 p.m. the girl at the sandwich place held the door open for a couple of teenagers, only a few years younger than her, and locked the door behind them. She flipped the sign on the front to read Closed. Cordoza could just make her out as she headed to the counter, then lost sight as traffic whizzed by the boulevard between his perch and the sandwich shop. He thought about whether he’d need his car, and decided against it. He drove out of the gas station and parked at a meter on the street, less conspicuous in case anyone bothered to pay attention. He walked along the sidewalk, sweatshirt keeping him warm against the slight cool that descended on LA in the evening, head down so his swollen face wouldn’t draw attention from any of the handful of pedestrians passing him. He waited for the light to change and crossed to the strip mall.
Except for a Starbucks wannabe coffee shop, none of the other stores were open. Standing across the parking lot, Cordoza could see that the girl was no longer in the front of the shop. He wasn’t worried about missing her – the lights were still on. She was probably cleaning up shit in the back, counting cabbage or whatever the hell Furyk had her doing. What a complete dipshit he was, making goddamn sandwiches for morons. Cordoza waited ten more minutes and the girl came back into the front and hit the lights. She’d go out the back, in the alley where deliveries were made in a few minutes. She disappeared again through a door behind the sandwich counter and Cordoza trotted back to his car and brought it into the lot and around the end of the shopping center into the darkened back street that ran behind the shops.
Though unmarked, the back door to the sandwich shop was painted the same puke green as the front. Cordoza parked his car and got to it just as the heavy handle started to twist. No one else was in the alley, which smelled of hair treatment chemicals and onion. The girl backed out of the door, pulling a large trash bag. He let her get halfway through and then cleared his throat. The sound, coming from just a foot away, startled her and she straightened and turned at the same time, quickly like a jack-in-the-box. Cordoza used the elbow of his right hand, ignoring the sharp pain in the wrist, to slash up and across the side of her head. Before her eyes could focus in the dark that was broken only by the muted outdoor light above a store several doors down, the hard point of his elbow knocked her unconscious. He caught her with his left hand before she hit the ground and pushed her back in the door using his legs to make up for not having use of his right hand. She slumped over the stuffed garbage bag and both the trash and her limp body slid together into the shop. Cordoza pulled the door shut behind them.
Chapter One Hundred Three
Prole decided not to shoot Furyk yet. He brushed past her and got the beer she’d been looking forward to out of the fridge. He took the spot on the couch she’d just given up, still warm though he didn’t notice. Prole swung the door shut with her foot and put the gun on the kitchen counter. She got her own beer and sat next to him, starting in a slouch but changing her mind and sitting up straight and turning slightly toward him. She was pissed and didn’t want him thinking it was okay to have ignored her calls, or having left the scene of multiple killings.
“You’re an asshole.” He didn’t argue. “You know about Margolin?”
Furyk drained the beer in two long pulls, wishing he had a pill to go with it. “Yeah, I had a little chat. He was in a sharing mood.”
Prole took a sip and put the bottle on the scarred wooden coffee table. She leaned toward Furyk. “No, I mean the part where he gets shot in the head while I’m talking to him. Added to the broken nose and other cuts and bruises he got during his chat with you.”
Furyk looked over sharply at her, his interest in the label on the beer bottle suddenly dissipated. “Who shot him? Did you catch him?”
“No, I was busy dodging the hail of bullets when he turned the gun toward me. Came from outside the house, through the window. Guy bolted.” She didn’t look worse for wear for the experience. In fact, he could still see the flush from the adrenaline in her cheeks. He hadn’t noticed when he came in.
“It was Cordoza.” He sounded certain, not like it was a guess or a question. Prole shook her head, starting to get tired of the conspiracy theory even though there was a lot of strange crap going on.
“I don’t know what the hell you think you know,
but there’s no evidence of Cordoza involved in any of this. No one’s said anything about him, he hasn’t been seen anywhere. Why do you have a bug up your ass about him?” She didn’t mention that her request to dispatch that Cordoza call her never resulted in him getting in touch.
Furyk understood her conflict. He hadn’t brought her any proof, and he’d been around at least of couple of dead bodies that raised a lot of questions without providing any answers. But she was smart and trusted him. He needed her help. “I didn’t know about Margolin – he was breathing when I left. No loss, but he won’t be able to testify about the last thing he told me.” He waited, not for dramatic effect but to let Prole cool off a little. “Brant was working with them. Wick and Margolin. I don’t have the details, but I’ll get them.”
“Goddamn it! Now you want me to believe the L.A. Sheriff is running a prostitution ring where he rents out strays so big shots can bang and beat ‘em? And your only corroborating witness is lying on a gurney at the coroner’s? Got any theories about who killed JFK?” She was furious, not so much at the accusation, but the lack of evidence. Knowing Brant was involved, even if she believed it, didn’t get her anywhere. Probably the opposite.
“Cordoza does whatever Brant tells him. Anything.” He gave her a hard look, and she suddenly remembered the story that made the rounds when Furyk left the force. He’d had a confrontation with a group of cops. Furyk was hurt pretty bad, but got off better than most of his attackers. Cordoza was in the lead, and he got messed up worse than the others – though it was hard to tell since he was such an ugly prick already. If Cordoza had killed Margolin, and probably Felicia, then shooting at Prole was not a random kill-everyone-in-the-room move. He’d been gunning for her. That should have made her scared. It only made her more angry.
“If that cocksucker killed Margolin on Brant’s orders, then pimping is the least of their worries. I’m gonna rip them both a new…” Furyk smiled crookedly at her, completely believing that she could and would. She stopped. “Where’s the woman? Your word doesn’t mean shit, so we need her. Maybe she can validate some of your bullshit theories.”
Merrill was the key. She probably knew more than she thought. Wick’s computer records had names of enough young girls that they’d be able to cull through and find out which were part of this. Merrill’s conversation with Felicia before she was killed may be hearsay, but it would spur an investigation. And after living with Wick for two decades and being around Margolin almost as long, there’d be plenty to talk to her about. Tying Brant to all this would take legwork, and in the meantime Furyk had to keep Merrill alive.
“I don’t think Brant ran it. Wick and Margolin put it together. Brant got involved somehow, and then controlled them. I don’t know the details.” He put his feet up on the ratty ottoman and crossed his ankles. He needed a break. It had been a busy couple of days. “I need your help.”
“No shit, genius. You’re a pretty good suspect for the girl’s murder, don’t forget.” She knew that was ridiculous, but it was one of the lines her boss told her to follow up on. She should call for a squad car to come and take Furyk in for questioning. She finished her second beer instead. “Where’s the Wick woman?”
Furyk leaned back and closed his eyes. “She’s safe for now. They’d been drugging her up pretty good and she’s just getting clearheaded.” It felt good to relax for a minute, here on Prole’s couch. Kind of quiet, safe, despite her dirty mouth and accusations. “Wick sexually abused her when she was a patient.”
Prole didn’t bother feigning shock. “Yeah, they were a couple of real stand-up guys. Wish I lived in that neighborhood.” She needed to talk to the wife, soon. But if Furyk said she was safe, then it was a good bet she wasn’t going to get shot or stabbed tonight. She took the remote control off the coffee table and flicked the mute button so the sound was back on. “Before I take you in for questioning, wanna watch the news and eat something?”
Furyk opened his eyes. Condensation from the cold bottle he’d been resting against his stomach had created a watermark on the light blue dress shirt he’d changed into earlier. He heard his stomach grumble. “Yeah, you cooking?” He laughed and pulled his legs off the footstool. If they were going to eat anything other than cereal or cold leftover Chinese takeout from two days ago, he’d have to scavenge in the kitchen and do the work himself. He got up and turned to step between Prole and the coffee table. She put one foot on the hard wooden edge, blocking him. Furyk stopped and looked down. Her adrenaline was still pumping, two beers were making her just a little lightheaded. She looked up at him and any other two people would have been too distracted by the killings, attacks, blood, and potential involvement of some of the cities most important and powerful people in a criminal enterprise to consider something as mundane as a kiss. It never occurred to either of them. He bent down and before she could lean back he planted a gentle but strongly motivated kiss on her lips. She didn’t kiss him back, but didn’t pull away. Furyk straightened just enough to create a small space between them and looked her full in the eyes. She saw the yellow rim around the deep blue of the iris and remembered another reason she liked to be around him. She brought her right arm up and curled it around his neck, pulling him back in and this time she was an active participant in the kiss.
Chapter One Hundred Four
The girl didn’t need to die unless circumstances demanded it. Cordoza used her apron to fashion a heavy blindfold while she lay semi-conscious, moaning and reaching for coherence. She wouldn’t be able to ID him should it ever come to that. If he had any doubts, though, he’d break her scrawny little neck when the scene he was orchestrating played out.
He propped her up next to a sink in the back room where he’d dragged her, lights still dim in case anyone went by the front or back and saw a glow that shouldn’t have been there. Cordoza found himself breathing heavier than he wanted, the throbbing in his face a constant background pain that seemed to be growing rather than subsiding despite the couple extra pills he’d swallowed. There was a stabbing sensation in his eye, or more like a pressure from a rounded stick pushing against it. He had no idea that the shifting fragments of bone that barely held the eye socket together were starting to destabilize. One shard, rounded on top but with a sharp crag at one end, was starting to press against the jelly of the eye. If he’d ever seen what happened when the bone around an eye actually collapsed, something found only in accidents involving heavy projectile trauma to the face and usually in places where there was a war or a lot of bombing going on, he’d have been more interested in the doctor’s advice and less in luring Furyk out of hiding.
A bucket with cool, sudsy water sat next to the girl. Cordoza upended it on her head and awareness quickly returned to Alycia. So did terror.
“Oh god, please, please don’t rape me!” It was the only thought she was able to form as she lost consciousness and it was fresh in her mind. “I, I’m not…the money – it’s in the bag, I was going to make a drop…It’s only a few dollars, Jimmy made the big run earlier. I’m…” Alycia was looking left and right as she spoke, rambled, pleaded, her hands tied behind her back with twine used to truss the turkey breast to look like it was whole and fresh. She didn’t know where her attacker was, only that she wanted to be sure she was addressing anyone in the room who had plans for brutalizing her. Cordoza was bored.
He slapped her, harder than necessary, on one cheek then again on the other for good measure as Alycia’s head flipped back and forth. “Shut up. I’m not interested in banging you. Not now, at least.” Let her be scared. Despite his hitting on Prole and the swagger he brought into any bar, Cordoza was much more interested in hurting than screwing women. He’d already shown her that much was going to happen. Let her think rape was around the corner. Not that he’d hesitate to use it as a motivator in fact as well as threat should he need it.
“You got a cell phone?” He hadn’t frisked her, but was sure she’d have the latest Motorola or Nokia somewhere within reach, like a
ny respectable teenager. She nodded vigorously.
“It’s in my, in my purse, here…” She tried to reach for the small bag on a strap across her shoulder and hanging at her waist. “Take it, take my whole purse.” Cordoza didn’t bother hitting her again. Stupid as she was, it probably wouldn’t do any good. That she would think he was here for her purse…he got the phone out and flipped it open. It only took him a few seconds to find the list of numbers and he scrolled down. Big surprise – the fourth one down, right after Hunky Jason, was Furyk, Cell.
It took five minutes and half a dozen threats of rape and mutilation to maneuver Alycia out the back door and into the trunk of Cordoza’s car. They were interrupted once by headlights and had to step back into the shop. Ten minutes later he pulled to the curb at his destination and opened the trunk.
Leaning in, he took the phone from his pants pocket and put it beside her head, still bound in the apron. She was hyperventilating, only partly because of the stale air in the enclosed space. Cordoza grabbed Alycia’s face in his left hand, fingers digging into the cheeks on either side of her mouth. She jumped at the sudden touch and then the pain.
“You’re going to talk into the phone. You’re going to beg your boss, tell him someone is going to kill you, rape you, if he doesn’t do what you say. You got that?” She tried to talk with his hand holding her mouth and out came a garbled, childlike sound. He interrupted. “You don’t say anything I don’t tell you. Just that you’re scared. And hurt. Got it?” This time she just nodded.
Cordoza traded her face for the phone and hit Dial after highlighting Furyk’s number. It rang three times, and then he heard the voice he hoped to see coming out of a bleeding, broken mouth in the very near future.
A Twisted Path Page 22