by Ed Kovacs
* * *
Honey motored her unit along General De Gaulle Drive on the West Bank. As we approached the light at Holiday, we hit a pothole and the talisman Fournier had given me fell from the rearview mirror.
“Crap,” I said. “That’s not a good omen.”
Honey slowed the vehicle a moment as I retrieved the charm and hung it from the mirror.
“You have got to stop with the omens and charms and ghosts—”
A sickening crash exploded in our ears, and the world went into slow motion as the car was violently torn asunder. Our appendages flopped as our bodies were wrenched where we sat, but our seat belts held us in place, our air bags deployed. Then I couldn’t see anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I never lost consciousness, although I can’t say I could recall everything exactly as it transpired over the last few seconds.
The air bags quickly deflated, as they were designed to do. We’d stopped moving sideways, and a loud hissing sound filled the interior of the twelve-year-old car.
The windscreen, or at least the place where the windscreen should have been, was filled with the sight of a beer truck, and not a brand I cared for. I could have reached right through and grabbed a cold one, since our engine compartment didn’t appear to be there anymore.
Honey appeared dazed, and I gently touched her arm.
“We’re okay. We got creamed. Nearly T-boned. Can you feel your feet? Your hands? Everything still connected?”
After a moment she nodded. “We’ll feel like crap tomorrow.”
“Who cares, we’re alive today.”
“Jesus H. Buddha and a smiling fat Muhammad, are you guys hurt?” A crusty guy who looked to be in his seventies and wore a 173rd Airborne Brigade Vietnam Veteran baseball cap, stood outside my door, trying to open it.
“I’ve felt better, sir,” I said.
“If you can move, you might want to try and crawl out this window.”
“Maybe we should wait for the fire department,” I said.
“You got gas leaking all over the pavement.”
“Then I like your idea better.” I looked to Honey. “Can you do it?”
“Let’s try,” she said.
Other brave bystanders surrounded the car and tried to open our doors, but no go: The car’s frame was tweaked and the doors frozen in place. Considering the state of our luck, there would be no time to wait for the Jaws of Life. As quickly as we could, and with lots of help, especially from the Vietnam vet, who took charge of the scene, Honey and I extracted ourselves from the wreckage of her unit, but not before I grabbed the talisman from around the mirror.
It felt sobering to see the extent of the carnage once we got out of the car. The huge beer truck had literally demolished the engine compartment, crushing it under its large wheels.
Within seconds after we cleared Honey’s unit, a flame ignited, spread like hot butter, and the car burned like an offering to Kali, goddess of destruction. As we backed farther away, the uniformed beer truck driver came over.
“I’m so sorry, I … I don’t know how to explain this. Guess I had a brain fart. I saw the red light but went anyway. I don’t know what possessed me to run that light.”
Honey and I looked at each other. Interesting choice of words he used.
Then it hit me that maybe our luck wasn’t so bad after all. “If you hadn’t slowed for that brief second when the talisman fell down,” I whispered to her, “we would have really been T-boned. We’d be dead.”
She just shook her head.
A few onlookers started to help themselves to the cases of beer stacked on the truck, lest it go to waste, as flames licked at the long undercarriage.
“Hey!” I yelled, holding up my gold shield. “Police officer! Bring a couple of those beers over here.”
* * *
By the time Honey and I got back to the Homicide Section, Drake already sat parked with his lawyer in an interrogation room being interviewed by arson investigators. Kruger monitored the exchange, waiting for Homicide’s turn to get in our questions for the professor, through his lawyer, of course.
Chief Pointer was not happy to learn he spent cash on bourbon and political capital getting search warrants, which turned out to be a waste of time, but at least he joined us in concluding that Drake was a no-good dirtbag with something to hide. Pointer didn’t seem to mind that Honey’s unit had been totaled, mostly since the beer company had deep pockets—pockets the chief would soon be picking for exaggerated compensation. He also bluntly told us that filing any Workers’ Compensation claims would be a huge mistake on our part. Nice to know the guy at the top had our best interests in mind.
Pointer kept seven unmarked units in reserve as his own personal carpool. He graciously issued Honey one of those units until a permanent replacement could be found, which put Honey up to her elbows in paperwork that needed to be filed before she could get the keys. Pointer’s graciousness would engender a lot of resentment from detectives who had no unit assigned to them, but then those officers had not generated banner headlines and positive TV coverage of crimes solved, as Honey had, so screw them.
I crossed toward my desk and felt my body stiffening up thanks to the car wreck. A wave of fatigue lapped at my consciousness, so I found a vending machine down the hall, chugged a couple of Red Bulls, and wolfed down a Snickers bar.
Breakfast and lunch finished, I got a cell call from Vice with the location of Townsend’s house of ill repute.
“Right smack on Saint Charles Avenue,” I said to the detective, then rang off. Staking out Townsend’s bordello was now on my agenda for this evening, along with finding Tony Fournier. It had been another slam-bang day, and as I tried to remember all of the things I’d forgotten to do, I saw Gina Sanchez walking toward the entrance to the Homicide Section, escorted by a uniformed officer.
“Miss Sanchez!”
“That’s the man,” she said to the uniform, who I waved off.
“We’ve been worried about you. You should have let us know you were moving.”
“Did you arrest the witch yet? Did you find my money?”
“No arrest yet. And sorry, the money hasn’t turned up. Where are you living now?”
“Can I go home to Mexico? Do I have your permission? It not safe for me here.”
“I’d rather you didn’t go back to Mexico just yet. And I promise you’re safe now.”
“How you can promise that?”
“The Las Calaveras, the Skulls are … you heard that four of them were killed?”
“Yes, I see on TV, but only four.”
“So the chances are they’re not going to cause any trouble right now.”
“Four cartel killers dead and you say they no cause trouble? And the witch, she still around, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I hear about Becky Valencia. I scared.”
“Did you know her?”
“I go for acupuncture few time. Felix do some small work at her house, so she pay with money and with five appointments for us. Needles scare me but make me feel good.”
Gina Sanchez just explained to me why her prints were in Valencia’s office. So much for that lead.
“I can still give you protective custody.”
She waved off that notion. “Why you no arrest the witch? If you no do your job, then I must to run and hide.”
“I heard you haven’t made any arrangements for your husband’s body.” It was a cold thing to say so bluntly, but I needed to see her reaction.
“I no have money!” She burst into tears and reached for a tissue in her purse. “You arrest Kate Townsend and I can get my money back, give Felix a good burial. And I will piss on her grave.”
Sanchez started sobbing again and shuffled off. I raced into the Homicide offices and made a couple of quick calls. Sanchez would be detained in the lobby until undercover detectives could take up surveillance. I didn’t think she was guilty of murder, but I’d been wrong before.
�
��What was that all about? We all heard the crying from in here,” said Honey as she came up to my desk.
“We’ve got a tail on Gina Sanchez now. I told her not to go back to Mexico.”
“That made her cry?”
I ignored the question and watched as Honey popped a couple of pain pills.
“Vice came up with the address of Townsend’s pleasure palace.” I said. “What time is good for you?”
“I can’t think clearly. I haven’t eaten all day. Again. I’ve been full throttle since six this morning when I got to the crime lab to push along some of the evidence evaluation. I need rest. I’m going home.”
What could I say? Honey looked like she’d been rode hard and put away wet. Maybe she got knocked around in the car more seriously than I did. I also knew she was still raw from our discussion about personal boundaries. It was a talk we needed to have. The decision had simply snuck up on me that I wasn’t going to wait around forever for my work partner to come around on the personal front. And I didn’t want to be in a position to have to lie or hide my liaisons with females for fear of hurting Honey.
“Good idea. Get some rest. I feel okay, so I’ll check it out, check with the coppers who responded to Jackson’s accident, and drop in on Fournier too.”
She left without saying another word.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The details of Jackson’s fatal accident were eerily similar to the nearly fatal wreck Honey and I just had; a semitruck ran a red light instantly killing the former Marine in his step van. No foul play was suspected, but how could one explain it?
As I sat parked outside Townsend’s apartment building on St. Charles, I draped Fournier’s talisman around my neck, an illogical thing to do. I didn’t believe that an object or good-luck charm could protect me, but I believed that it acted as a reminder that I was responsible for protecting myself. And that was good enough.
I then turned my attention to the task at hand. Within an hour, by around ten o’clock, I had figured out the process. Johns would park on the street and make a cell-phone call, probably to tell Kate Townsend they had arrived. They’d wait in their vehicles until they got a call back, usually within fifteen minutes. Then they’d walk to the front door and get buzzed in.
One of the johns was an NOPD captain I recognized. Maybe that’s how Townsend got my home address, if it was Townsend in the Anonymous mask; she asked for a little favor from a highly placed police client.
I clocked a fortyish businessman get out of a new Mercedes and go in, and I decided he would be the one. The guy would have a wife, kids, social standing—a lot to lose in a vice arrest. When he emerged smiling forty-five minutes later, I stood waiting at his Benz and flashed my gold shield.
“NOPD. Put your hands on the hood.”
“What?”
“You just had sex with a hooker. Now put your hands on the damn car!” I gave him a little shove, and he quickly complied.
“Spread your legs farther apart.” I stood behind him and kicked his right foot to give him the idea. “Don’t move.”
I fished out his car keys, wallet, and a little something extra from his pockets.
“What do we have here?” I set the vial of cocaine on the car hood in front of him.
He hung his head sadly. “Shit.”
“Well I hope it was good shit, because you are in a lot of trouble, mister.” I checked his ID. “Mister Jon Harol.” I glanced at family photos in his wallet then tossed them next to the coke. “Taking a little walk on the wild side tonight?”
He didn’t answer. I could tell he was the kind of guy who’d never been in trouble with the law. He kept trying to swallow, but I guess his mouth had gone dry.
I spun him around to face me. “Here’s the deal. Looks like you got a nice family. And I bet you’d like to keep things good with them, wouldn’t you?”
He looked up at me. “Yes, I would. I’d be willing to give you—”
I grabbed him by his lapels and got right in his face. “Don’t you try to bribe me, asshole!”
“I’m sorry, I…”
I released him with a little shove. “Who is this woman?” I showed him Townsend’s mug shots.
“I only know her as Susan.”
“She’s the madam, right?”
He nodded.
“What about this girl? Is she in there right now?” I showed him an eight-by-ten still I had generated of Anastasia, taken from my hidden video the night I saw her in LaPlace.
“Yes, that’s April.”
“You bang her?”
“Yes … no. Not tonight. But I have, yes.” Harol was shaking, he was so scared.
“Okay. I’ll throw the cocaine in the street and let you walk. In return, you call Susan, tell her you have a good friend who wants April to come to his place. Tonight. Doesn’t matter what it costs.”
“Would you rather I just call April? I have before.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harol,” I said with a slight smile. “That would be even better.” He gave me April’s number; I gave him a piece of paper with a phony name and one of my throwaway-cell numbers on it. “Give April this name and number and tell her to call me. If she doesn’t pick up when you call, leave a message.”
Harol performed flawlessly. I handed him his photos back. “I’d change your cell number if I were you, and never contact these ladies again. They’ll figure out you helped me. Understand?”
“Yes,” he said quickly. I could tell he wanted to get into his car and run home to the safety of his home and family.
I turned the cocaine vial upside down and tapped the contents into the street as he watched. “You think this blow and that piece of ass you rented in there are worth going to jail for?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then keep that in mind for future reference.”
He nodded, relieved, and I melted into the darkness.
* * *
A dark sedan pulled to a stop directly across the street from my building just as my throwaway cell rang. I knew this was Anastasia/April calling to tell me she had arrived outside my place. Her first call to book the liaison had been about thirty minutes ago.
“Hi, this is Steven,” I said.
I zoomed in using night vision. Most escort services used drivers, and the guy sitting behind the wheel looked like a scuzzy punk. I made out Anastasia sitting next to him in the front seat.
“It’s April. I’m here,” said Anastasia over the cell phone.
“Slight change in address. You see the black awning across the street?”
“Yes.”
“Push the button and I’ll buzz you in. Come up to the second floor.”
I’d long ago removed the sigil from next to my front door, but if Anastasia had placed it there or had a connection to those who did, then she would know my building and know this was a setup. I watched from a darkened window in my loft as she crossed the street toward my front door without hesitation. That told me she didn’t know who I was. I buzzed her in.
The first floor of my building was a work in progress. My Ford F-350 diesel dually extended-cab pickup truck with a five-inch lift and wraparound custom grille guard and bumpers sat parked, surrounded by a world of junk, uh, I mean, collectibles. Upon entering from the street, you could either attempt to penetrate the vast wasteland of the ground floor or walk up the cypress stairway with a brass railing. At the top of the stairs, another security door awaited, and I’d cracked it open for Anastasia to come right in.
“I’m in the kitchen, mixing a drink,” I yelled as she peeked through the doorway. I’d been disguising my voice slightly, on the slim chance she might recognize it from the brief encounter we had in LaPlace. “I put your fee on the coffee table.”
The fee was five hundred dollars in cold cash. A more-prudent professional would have balked at the last-minute change of address and at the fact I wasn’t at the door greeting her, but Anastasia entered and went right for the money. She quickly counted and pocketed the dough,
then made a quick cell call, presumably to the driver downstairs.
“I’m in and everything’s okay.”
As she tossed her cell phone in her purse, I entered holding two martinis.
“Good to see you again, Anastasia, or whatever your real name is.”
You can’t fake the kind of utter shock that swept across her face. She quickly looked to her purse.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said, closing in quickly. “I want this to be a friendly visit.”
Since the department still held my Glock and the Colt .45 for testing, I had my Browning .380 tucked into my rear waistband on a permanent basis now, thanks to the Skulls. I added the Ruger to my arsenal whenever I left the loft, but the only weapon I figured I’d need tonight with Anastasia was my brain.
I could almost see her mind racing as she searched for an explanation to give me. Not the truth, necessarily, but an explanation that would fly.
“Let’s start with your real name,” I said, setting the drinks on the coffee table and sinking into my brown leather sofa. She still stood there, looking confounded, worried, and a little scared.
“Am I under arrest?”
“I’d rather not do that, but I have you on video taking the money to perform sexual services. I recorded our calls and, if you remember, I was pretty explicit in telling you what I wanted. So why don’t you just sit down? You’re involved in something a lot more serious than a prostitution beef. Cooperate, be truthful, and things will work out better for you.”
She sat on the other end of the couch.
“I make excellent martinis, that is, if you like them dirty,” I said, taking a sip. After a moment, so did she. Good. I now had her fingerprints on the glass. I don’t allow smoking in my home, but tonight I’d make an exception. I’d already set out an ashtray and lighter. If she was a smoker, I could get DNA from her cigarette butts.
“I’d like to call my uncle.”
“Not yet. And maybe not at all.”
“Uncle Tony means everything to me. After my parents died, I … I was a mess. He saved my life, actually.”