The Broken Souls (Carson Ryder, Book 3)

by J. A. Kerley

  “You got it,” I said.

  Dinkins said, “You fuckers are flat-out goofy.”

  “Don’t press your luck, Leroy,” Harry said.

  CHAPTER 20

  Of the two Hooley brothers, Harry said Darryl was the one to work on, a goofed-out stoner. Darryl lived in a single-story ranch in mid-Mobile, an aging suburb of expressionless boxes, anonymity with a mailing address. Harry parked a block away, lifted the binocs to his face.

  “Oh my,” Harry grinned. ‘There is a God.”

  “What?”

  “Darryl Hooley, all by his lonesome. Sitting on the porch and toking on a reefer. Let’s park in the alley, come around from behind.”

  We crept through the backyard, snaked around the side of the house. I jumped up over the porch rail, grabbed up a baggie of pot, tossed it to Harry. Hooley tried to stand but my hand encouraged him to remain sitting. Hooley was a small guy, bony shoulders, soft eyes. He wore faded jeans and a black KISS T-shirt, the band that wouldn’t die.

  Harry held the bag delicately, his pinkie sticking out, like sipping tea. “Lord have mercy, Darryl, what’s this greenish substance?”

  “It’s fuckin’ pot, what the hell do you …Hey, Harry Nautilus! Been years. You’re looking good, dude, few extra pounds …”

  Harry reached to the back of his belt for handcuffs. He shook them in Hooley’s eyes like ringing a bell. “Let’s go, Darryl. You know the routine.”

  “Huh? You serious?”

  “This is an illegal substance, Darryl. A no-no.”

  “We both know that bag’s not going to be heavy enough to get me on trafficking. This is a roust.”

  Harry rattled the cuffs. “Hands on the house and spread ’em, Darryl. Time for some hooking and booking.”

  “You’re homicide now, right? Why are you doin’ this to me? It’s harassment.” Darryl had a nasal voice and sounded like a kid whining about being fed spinach.

  “It’s a night in the bag, Darryl,” I said. “And a court appearance. And a shyster to warm your side at morning court. It’s pissant bullshit, I know, but it’s also a pain in your ass and a drain on your wallet.”

  “You’re right, Darryl,” Harry said, “it’s harassment. I’ve got a couple of new hobbies, and harassing you is one of them.”

  The curtains parted in Hooley’s cannabis intoxication. He sighed.

  “You want something. Right, Harry? You always wanted something.”

  Harry laid his hand on Darryl Hooley’s shoulder, leaned close. “You got a guy just started boosting for your operation. Has or had Wookiee genes, hairy everything. Am I correct?”

  Hooley stared at his shoes, mute. Harry stood back and jangled the cuffs. “Damn, I love a new hobby. The thrill of repeating something over and over until you get good at it. Did I ever tell you how long it took me to learn to play tambourine? Don’t think in days, Darryl. Months either.”

  Hooley shot a glance over his shoulder. His voice became contemplative.

  “I’m in a kind of gray area here, Harry, admissions and all that. Might be best to just take the misdemeanor, my man. Don’t want to have any translation problems here, find out you’re saying one thing, but I’m not catching the meaning, y’know?”

  It was the ready-to-deal voice, one I’d heard a hundred times. I winked at Harry.

  “You remember me ever lying, Darryl?” Harry said.

  “You were always straight, Harry. Hard, but straight.”

  “Here’s the deal: you get a pass on the pot this time around. And anything you say is dust the minute we leave. Guaranteed.”

  Hooley nodded. “Good enough for me, Harry. Can I sit down, get comfortable? Finish my doob?”

  “You get two outta three, Darryl,” Harry said. “Guess which two?”

  Hooley sighed, turned and sat in the chair, pushed his hippie hair back behind his ears.

  “Harry, the guy you’re looking for is crazy.”

  “How about starting on page one, Darryl?”

  “It was last week. Guy came by our, uh, establishment. My brother said, ‘What you want, my man?’ The guy said, ‘I want to schedule a presentation.’ My brother said, ‘A fucking what?’ The guy said, ‘I think we can work together, a limited partnership.’ I thought to myself, This fucker’s crazy. Danny said, ‘Here’s how we work together, partner, you bring us merchandise limited to just high-end stuff, we give you money.’”

  “You and Danny didn’t think he was a setup, a cop?” Harry interrupted.

  “The guy was too fuckin’ crazy, like I said. Talked weird, used ten-foot words. And he didn’t look like a plant. You guys stand out like parrots on a shitpile.”

  “What happened?”

  Darryl Hooley shook his head, a dreamy pot smile on his face. “He came by the next day in a ’58 Mercedes, a classic. Handed me the keys.”

  “What’d he do next?”

  Hooley clapped his hands in delight. “Got on a fucking bus. It’s morning, Saturday, broad daylight. Comes back an hour later with a 2004 Beamer series. Does it again and brings in a ’97 Porsche Turbo. The man had a gift.”

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  Hooley’s face dropped. “He dropped off the Turbo, tossed the keys and grabbed thirty-five big ones. I said, ‘What’s next?’ He said that was it, he was done.”

  “Done?” Harry asked.

  “I said, ‘Brother, we can put you on staff, you got a natural talent.’ You know what that crazy fuck told me?”

  “What?”

  “Said he’d made all the money he needed. Who in their right mind has all they need, Harry? See what I mean about the guy being crazy?”

  The next stop in our blind passage was Crimes Against Property, Vehicle Theft Division, one floor down. Vince Raines ran the squad, but Vince was out of town and we spoke with Mitch Burdon, second in command.

  “A ’97 Porsche Turbo, ’58 M-B Roadster, a 2004 Beamer-seven?” Mitch said, pecking at his computer. He shook his head. “No hits on those models. Got a few Lexuses, Infinitis, upscale SUVs, Caddys. All gone in the same week you’re talking about.”

  Another dead end. Harry said, “Word is the Hooleys were on the receiving end. That do anything?”

  “All that means is efficiency. The Hooleys only take high-end and keep it in hand for less time than it takes most people to sneeze.”

  “We’re sure the cars came from town,” Harry said.

  Mitch nodded. “A few ways it could happen. Your thief got them from a stash of previously stolen vehicles, from a place where they’re stored and not yet missed, or from long-term parking at an airport, and no one knows they’re gone yet. I’ll stay in touch, guys.”

  We headed upstairs. Harry stopped to pull a drink from the water cooler and I headed to my desk. There were just a few detectives in attendance. Roy Trent was on the phone asking someone about credit card purchases, following a trail. Larry Barnes sat at his desk with fluorescent pink diver’s plugs in his ears, staring at the ceiling and squeezing a tennis ball, his deep-thought mode.

  I passed the Logan-Shuttles cube. Logan was at his desk, Shuttles behind him, looking down at Logan’s desk. They were studying an 8 x 10 photo. I couldn’t make out the subject.

  Logan said, “She don’t look sexy, but she looks hot, don’t she, Tyree?”

  “Jesus, Pace,” Shuttles said. “That’s sick.”

  “Keep you warm on a cold night, I’ll bet. Smokin’!” Logan laughed, a wet gurgle.

  I poked my head over the divider.

  “What’s up, guys?”

  Shuttles shook his head. “Pace is losing it.”

  “Have you seen our latest case, Ryder?” Logan grinned. “Take a look, it’s my dear old mummy.”

  He held up the photo. It was a charred corpse, looking mummified, if that’s the way you wanted to see things. It was a morgue photo, after the body had been transported.

  “The victim from the apartment fire on Corcoran,” I said. “I was there when they brought her out.
”

  “You saw the cuffs?” Shuttles asked.

  I nodded. “Find anything out?”

  Logan interrupted. “We found out she looked better as bread than toast.”

  He flipped open a file folder, pulled out another photo, spun it my way. A good-looking woman wearing a theatrical pout, net hose, spike heels, a leather G-string and little else. She held a riding crop. A superimposed URL suggested the photo had been pulled from a website. I hope my mouth didn’t drop open like a cartoon character, but I think it did.

  “I know her,” I said, as Harry walked up. He looked at the picture, muttered an expletive, shook his head.

  “I know her, too,” he said. “Carole Ann Hibney.”

  “I found out she went by the name of Mistress Sonia,” Logan smirked. “You guys clients?”

  In less time than a finger snap, Harry was in the cubicle, his hand pulling Logan upward by his shirtfront.

  I jumped between them, dodging Logan’s hands as he tried to get them around my partner’s neck. There was some thumping around, files tumbling from a desk, a chair skittering into the wall, but between Shuttles and me, we separated Harry and Logan.

  “You’re a head case, Nautilus,” Logan snarled over Shuttles’s shoulder.

  “And you’re the world’s shittiest detective, Logan,” Harry returned over mine. “You got no respect for anything.”

  “I got no respect for you. You were a decent street cop, but ever since you got the gold you act like Mr Stinkless Shit.”

  “Shut up, Logan,” I said. “Harry and I seem to have some connections with the victim. How about acting like a detective and making your next question along those lines?”

  I heard Shuttles whispering to Logan, telling him to sit, relax, it was all over. Across the room I saw Trent look our way with moderate interest, then go back to his calls. Personality clashes weren’t unknown in a detectives’ room. Larry Barnes was oblivious, squeezing his tennis ball, studying the ceiling tiles.

  Harry and Logan shot each other knife eyes until Logan returned to his chair and Harry retreated to the opening of the cubicle.

  Shuttles took the lead. “She was a call girl, is what Pace is saying. A dominatrix type. You really know her, Carson?”

  “Bad choice of words,” I said. “I saw her at a party at the Shrine Temple last Saturday night, a business banquet sponsored by Channel 14. We spoke maybe four words.”

  I replayed the memory. The woman in the cobalt dress arriving via the kitchen, asking me to get her a drink, then standing beside a column and scoping the room while banging down the liquor. I recalled her practicing a big, bright smile, like preparing to play a role. Then the lights went dark and I lost track of her.

  “Who was she with?” Shuttles asked.

  “No one. Now that I know her occupation, I think she was sneaking into the party.”

  Shuttles said, “How about you, Harry? How did you know Ms Hibney?”

  “Or Mistress Sonia,” Logan said, his standard sneer back in place.

  Harry ignored Logan, spoke to Shuttles and me. “I met her about ten years back. Carole Ann was maybe twenty-three, showed up in Mobile after leaving an abusive boyfriend. She was from some hick town in Mississippi. She was basically bright, y’know? But ignorant, a dropout in eighth grade. She landed in the Greyhound station with a black eye and a suitcase.”

  “Bad news,” I said. Pimps and perverts cruised bus stations like sharks, salivating for the Carole Ann Hibneys of the world.

  “One guy got his meat hooks into her, pimp named Sleet Bemis. Nicknamed Sleet because he was so slick. He turned her out three weeks later. Bemis beat her, too. Carole Ann and I met in the hospital after one of those beatings. I had a talk with Bemis, who vacated town shortly thereafter. Then I convinced Carole Ann she was bright enough to go back to school, get her GED, maybe go to a JUCO, but …”

  Harry shook his head.

  “But she was lazy,” Logan said, clapping his hands and leaning into the conversation. “Right, Nautilus? I seen it a dozen times. Girl grew up in some white-trash trailer park, never saw anyone get up and go to work. When she found out she could make easy money from the old jelly jar, all that studying and school stuff was just too much work.”

  Harry glared. Logan shrugged, held his hands palms up.

  “Am I right here?”

  Harry looked away, sighed. “You’re right, Logan. She bagged the school bit. Last I’d heard, Carole Ann was in New Orleans. Guess she got washed back here.”

  “I wonder what she was doing at the Shrine,” I said.

  Shuttles said, “I remember a case from a class I took –”

  “Oh, Jesus, here we go with the class crap,” Logan said, rolling his eyes.

  Shuttles continued. “There was a ring of prostitutes, good-looking, expensive. They kept hotel workers on their payrolls. The workers told the prostitutes when a convention was coming up, or a corporate wingding. The girls would put on party clothes and show up, spread the good word, so to speak.”

  “You think that’s what happened?” I asked.

  “It makes good sense,” Shuttles said. “From what you said about her sneaking in the place.”

  “Horseshit,” Logan said, rolling his chair forward so fast Shuttles had to jump back to keep from getting his toes run over. “Look at the fuckin’ picture. The woman was a beater, a fem dom. Tying up johns and whipping them, snapping clothes-pins on their nips, pissing in their mouths while they jerk off. ‘Excuse me, Mistress Sonia, could I have some more ginger ale?’”

  Logan laughed at his little joke. I heard Harry growl. It was about time to git.

  “Your point, Logan?” I asked.

  “Beaters don’t solicit at conventions. They use the Net these days. That’s where we got the picture. Why go door-to-door, so to speak, when you can put up a website with pictures of titties in leather, get the submissive trade beating a path to your door?”

  Logan clapped his hands and laughed again; the beating reference, I guess.

  I turned to Shuttles. “I’d talk to the kitchen folks at the Shrine, Tyree. See if anyone there knows how she got let in and why.”

  “There you go, Shuttles,” Logan chuckled, clasping his fingers behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “Ryder’s figured out your chore for the afternoon.”

  Harry and I slumped back to our cube to lash together notes on Dinkins and the Hooleys. I started scratching an outline. Harry stared at the ceiling, as though following Barnes’s lead.

  “Can I get you some earplugs?” I said. “A tennis ball?”

  “What? Oh, sorry. I was zoning out.”

  “You thinking about Carole Ann Hibney?”

  He nodded, sadness in his eyes. “She was basically pathetic, Cars. Born lost in the woods and nowhere to go but deeper in the forest. But there was a spark in her, a brightness. In her world, strange as it was, she felt she had things figured out. Logical, in a way. She decided she wasn’t going to be whipped on by men anymore, that it was her turn to do the whipping. She’d had a couple johns who wanted it that way, and realized they were the easiest to deal with and paid the most. That’s when she came up with the Mistress Sonia act. She once told me she picked her johns carefully, thought she was safe.”

  “It only takes the one,” I said.

  CHAPTER 21

  Taneesha Franklin’s visitation arrived the following Monday morning. Harry and I were going because perps sometimes attended the services of victims, a compulsion seeming to border on the erotic. We’d spent from Friday through Sunday retracing our steps, and hadn’t found any place we’d slipped up, but had found nothing new, either. I was hoping a wild-eyed and hairy guy would walk into the services with I DID IT stenciled on his forehead.

  The day was clear and bright, the sky a blue mirror. The funeral parlor was large, with a wide front lawn, a large primary and smaller secondary parking lot to the side. The parlor was bordered on both sides by small shops, the nearest a grocery. Knowing
Dani would be at the service, I hadn’t looked forward to attending, but it was part of my job and my promise to Taneesha. The events with Dani hurt like hell, but every time the sun came up, I was a day further down the road.

  We pushed into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, perhaps two hundred folks. The service had been earlier, family only. Harry and I studied the crowd from the corners. Lincoln Haley stood across the room, black-suited, his face somber. He saw us and headed our way.

  “Gentlemen, thanks for coming.”

  “It’s actually part of the job, Mr Haley. But from what we’ve learned about Ms Franklin, it’s what we’d want to do anyway.”

  We stood silently for several moments, sharing the uneasiness of grief. A voice came from behind as a male shape moved past my shoulder.

  “Mr Haley? You’re Lincoln Haley, sir? I recognized you from your photo on WTSJ’s website. I’m sorry for the loss. It must be a tremendous blow to everyone at the station.”

  I turned to see a guy a bit under my height, paunchy, slope-shouldered. He was dressed in dark pants and a dark sport coat. His short hair was the sort of subdued red favored by folks who want to be edgy, but don’t have the type of job permitting blue or green. A silver ring protruded from his eyebrow and there was a soft color to his flesh that was probably makeup. He spoke with a slight lisp.

  Haley said, “Thank you, sir. Are you a friend of Taneesha?”

  “No, I’m sorry to say. I’m more a friend to WTSJ, my favorite station. I’ve been listening for years. I remember back when Ms Franklin started, the midnight-to-six slot. I always tuned in and listened. I wasn’t born until 1981, but I always loved the funk and Motown of the sixties and seventies. Otis, Sly, Mahalia, Aretha, James Brown…”

  I tuned the conversation out, scanned the crowd while trying to appear nonchalant. I was looking for wild eyes and an aura of menace. Sometimes the crazies walked right into your pocket.

  “She had a great voice,” the fan was saying to Haley. “It’s a terrible loss. I hope someone pays dearly for what they did.”