Summer Cool - A Jack Paine Mystery (Jack Paine Mysteries)

by Al Sarrantonio

  He tried to move into a sitting position but could not. Instead, he arched his back, grabbing his feet with his hands, and began to explore the knot Quinones had made.

  It was good, but if he had remembered better, he would have put another loop into the truss that would have made it impossible for Paine to get out of it. But he didn't do that, and after a while Paine had loosened one noose around one foot enough to slip the foot out. The other foot followed. Fifteen more minutes and he had loosened his hands and rubbed blood back into them.

  He sat up on the bed.

  His body began to throb again. He sat perfectly still, letting the ache do its work.

  Finally, he stood, again letting his head have its way, and walked to the door.

  It was locked, but it was a cheap bathroom lock and a half minute with his penknife released it.

  He eased the door open.

  There was still night darkness in the house. The light came through an open door at the far end of the room he had entered. It was a storage room, boxes of silver chains and clasps, plastic bags of turquoise stones. Boxes filled with white cardboard gift boxes.

  Paine went into the outer room, slowly, delicately, painfully.

  He was in the cellar of the house. Basement windows showed blackness from outside. There was a workshop, a lathe, a drill press, racks of jewelers' tools on pegboards hung on the walls. A single overhead bulb with a pull chain was on by the stairs.

  Paine stepped on the stairs and smelled blood.

  The door was open at the top; Paine saw more light in a hallway. As he approached the top the smell of blood was very strong.

  An arm lay on the floor across the opening into the cellar, the hand palm up. It wasn't attached to anything.

  Paine stepped over it, and saw that the hallway was littered with human limbs.

  He found their heads in the living room of the house, the showroom. They were on the sales counter by the cash register, facing one another. The woman's long black hair had been carefully curled around the neck; her earrings did not dangle, two long ovals of turquoise on silver hangers resting on the counter. Quinones's head regarded her; it looked as though his left eye were staring at her earrings.

  Paine went to the front door. It was open, warm desert night air filtering into the shop. The moon was up, waxing toward full; the outside world looked nearly as dreamlike as the inside of the jewelry store.

  Perhaps because it all looked like a dream, or perhaps because he was getting used to it, or getting angry, this time Paine did not vomit.

  22

  From the elevator, Paine could tell that the door to his hotel room was open. He stepped back into the elevator car, waited for the doors to close, and pushed the button for the lobby. The elevator went down and let him off.

  He went to the desk, smiled. The nightman smiled back, ignoring the battered face.

  "Hi," Paine said. "I'm in 417. Could you tell me if my friend checked in yet? He's supposed to be in the room next to me, but I don't know if that's 415 or 419."

  The nightman checked his book. "Would that be Mr. Chambers in 415?"

  Paine frowned. "I thought for sure he said 419."

  "Room 419 is vacant, sir. Would that be Mr. Chambers?"

  "Sure," Paine said, moving away. "Thanks."

  Paine went to the end of the lobby, pushed through the glass doors into the pool area, and went to the far end. An old man was in the pool, doing slow laps in dog paddle. He didn't look up as Paine went by.

  Paine pushed through to the outside. His room was in the rear, facing the parking lot. The lot was empty.

  Paine climbed the fire escape to the fourth floor. There were balconies, and he made his way to the balcony outside room 419.

  There was a sliding glass door, which took Paine a few minutes to get through.

  He went into the room, slid the door closed behind him. He walked to the bathroom, took a glass tumbler from its sterile wrapper, went into the bedroom and sat on the bed.

  He put the glass open end to the wall over the bed and put his ear to the other end.

  There was silence in the room next door, then a yawn.

  "Shit," someone said in a hard whisper.

  "Be quiet," a second voice said. "You've been complaining for two hours."

  "Doesn't this fucker ever sleep? I'm hungry."

  "You'll eat when we're finished."

  "I'm hungry now."

  "You should have brought something."

  "I ate it an hour ago."

  "Just be fucking quiet."

  "It's uncomfortable, too. These chairs are uncomfortable."

  The other one sighed loudly. "This is the last time I work with you, Martin."

  Martin laughed. "You think I complain too much? Tell Gordon to transfer you. Fine with me, Sims."

  "You did nothing but—"

  "You hear something?" Martin said in a fierce whisper.

  "I said shut up!"

  There was silence; Paine heard someone walk by in the hallway outside, whistling. After a moment he heard the elevator doors open and then close. The whistling went away.

  "Wasn't him," Martin said. "Where the hell is he?"

  "Will you be quiet?"

  "I told you I was hungry and uncomfortable. These chairs are uncomfortable."

  Paine pulled the glass away from the wall, set it down on the table next to the bed. He picked up the phone, dialed room 417.

  The phone rang awhile. Paine could imagine them arguing in the dark as to whether to pick it up or not. Finally, one of them did.

  "Sims?" he said purposefully. "Gordon told me to tell you we've got him spotted across the street at the Marriott. Go downstairs. Tell Martin to wait outside the door, in the hallway. You hear me?"

  Sims started to protest, but Paine said, "Gordon says now," and hung up the phone.

  Paine went to the door and waited. There was a commotion next door, then the door opened and someone strode to the elevator, got on it, and was gone.

  Paine opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, pretended to lock his own door. He walked quickly by Martin, standing in the hallway, turned and punched Martin in the face.

  "Hey!" Martin protested, but Paine pushed him back through the door into his hotel room, punched him again, kicked the door closed behind him. Martin was feeling around his chest under his jacket, so Paine planted his fist in Martin's groin and Martin went down to the rug groaning. Paine pushed him back with his foot and went through Martin's jacket, coming up with a snub-nosed .38 in a shoulder holster. He put the gun to Martin's nose.

  "Talk very clearly," Paine said, the adrenaline rush masking the pain that had flared when he'd punched Martin.

  Martin was still groaning, so Paine made a deeper impression on Martin's nose with the barrel of the gun until Martin's eyes focused on him.

  Paine said, "Are you FBI?"

  Martin shook his head no.

  "Who?"

  "Bullshit," Paine said. He pushed the circle of steel harder into the side of Martin's nose. "Where's your ID?"

  "Inside pocket, right side," Martin said.

  Paine kept pressure on the gun, and reached into the jacket pocket opposite the holster. There was an ID there, identifying Raymond Martin, special agent, Drug Enforcement Agency.

  "What the fuck are you doing in my hotel room?" Paine said. Martin became silent.

  "Tell me or I'll put another fucking nostril in your nose," Paine said.

  "Waiting to talk to you."

  "About what?"

  "You're obstructing a drug investigation."

  Paine pressed the gun hard into Martin's nose, waiting for more.

  "We're looking for Robert Petty."

  "Why?"

  Martin became silent again.

  Paine was going to threaten him again when he saw Martin's eyes focus from Paine to something behind him, and Paine felt the end of the barrel of someone else's .38 in his neck.

  "Drop the gun, get up, put your hands on yo
ur head," Sims's voice said behind Paine.

  Paine did what he was told.

  Martin got up and smiled at Sims, who was nearly as heavy as Martin but wore the weight better. He was balding and wore rimless glasses and didn't smile.

  "Does this mean we can eat?" Martin said cheerfully, pulling Paine's hands down behind his back to handcuff them.

  "Just shut up, okay?"

  Martin finished with the cuffs then came around to stand next to Sims and look at Paine. "He said he was going to put another nostril in my nose," Martin said, looking hurt.

  Sims said to Paine, "You're in a bunch of trouble, shithead. 'Course it looks like someone already told your face that."

  "Did you have a warrant to break into my hotel room?" Paine said, ignoring the comment. He wanted to lie down. Or die.

  Sims smirked, taking two folded pieces of paper out of his pocket. "That, and another birthday surprise. I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of somebody named. . ." He unfolded the paper and read from it. ". . . James Coleman, of Yonkers, New York." He smiled. "You're going back to New York, cop killer."

  Martin smiled at Paine, turned to Sims. "Can we eat now, Jerry?" he asked.

  23

  Chief Bryers, with his car and driver, was waiting for Paine at LaGuardia Airport. As they pulled away from Sims and Martin, who had personally flown back with Paine and who stood smiling and waving at the curb outside the American Airlines terminal, Bryers removed Paine's handcuffs.

  "Relax," Bryers said. "You're not being charged with anything."

  Paine looked at him levelly; there seemed to be a hint of amusement on Bryers’ face behind the bureaucrat's veneer. "Then what am I doing here?"

  "There was a time, for about twenty minutes yesterday, when you were directly connected with the murder of Jim Coleman."

  "Who issued the warrant?"

  Bryers smiled slightly. "I did. Let's just say I was politely asked to do it."

  "By who?"

  "The U.S. Attorney's office. And let's say he was asked by someone else above him."

  "You were ordered to have me sent back to New York?" Bryers said,

  "Asked." The chagrined smile remained.

  "Don't you care about being jerked around?" Paine asked.

  Bryers’ demeanor darkened. "That's not the way I'd put it."

  "How would you put it?"

  "Let's just say a lot has happened since yesterday. A lot of it I have you to thank for."

  Paine waited for more.

  Bryers suddenly smiled widely and slapped Paine on the knee. "You're a good man, Jack. You're honest, and you're tough. I'd like you to work for me."

  "Didn't Coleman make me an unauthorized job offer a few days ago?"

  "This is different. You've helped me clean up the whole department in less than a week, and I'd like to have you around for good. Rank of detective, second class, to start. We can talk about salary over drinks."

  Paine studied Bryers’ face to see if he was joking. But Bryers didn't have the kind of face that joked.

  Bryers said, "Don't you realize what you've done?"

  "You did break into Coleman's house, didn't you? You left no prints but I know it was you."

  After a moment, Paine said, "Yes."

  "You didn't plant that stuff in the hutch drawer, did you?"

  "It was there already."

  Bryers almost laughed. "Well, don't you realize that Coleman's log contained the names of every crooked cop in the department, and half the dealers in Yonkers? That would have taken me months, maybe years, to get at. I've got ten indictments already, and another five in the works! And then the department's clean!"

  "That's nice."

  "Jack, in twenty years, I've never had a day like this! We even solved Roberto Hermano's murder." He laughed. "Turned out it was a lover's quarrel, if you want to call it that. Hermano was a fag. Apparently he and some other fag named Philly Ramos were an item. When Roberto started fooling around on the side with a sixteen-year-old named Jeff Samuels, Ramos found out about it and killed him out of jealousy. This kid Samuels came to us with his parents. They were white as a sheet, their little boy, good background, all-white school, mixed up with this kind of homo crap. The kid was a wreck, told us everything. He said Bob Petty had been protecting Hermano, and that after Petty disappeared Roberto wanted to leave New York with Samuels, but the kid wouldn't go with him." Bryers’ enthusiasm dropped a notch. "Jack, I am sorry about your friend Petty turning out bad—"

  "Who said Petty was involved?"

  "His prints were all over the club where we found Coleman's body. So were yours. You tell me what to think."

  "Was his name in Coleman's ledgers?"

  "No. But he and Coleman could have had a separate agreement. Or Petty may have gone on the take recently. Or maybe Petty decided to take over the whole operation."

  Paine was silent.

  "Look, Jack, you have to be reasonable," Bryers said. "I've got Petty directly connected with a murder in Yonkers, one in Fort Worth, Texas, and now I have an APB in from Tucson for Petty for the murder of someone named Enrique Quinones and his girlfriend. All of the bodies were hacked to pieces and decapitated. I think it's safe to say that Petty is involved, and that he may be out of his mind. What do you think? Of course, you were there, too. And you look like you were in a war. So talk to me."

  "I don't know what to think."

  "Listen, Paine," Bryers said. "I'd really like you to come back to the department. It would be good for you, for me, for everyone."

  "How would it be good for me?"

  Bryers showed surprise. "Don't you miss the police force? Your father was a good cop, from what I hear."

  "I don't miss the force."

  Bryers’ surprise increased. "Do you mean that?"

  "Look," Paine said, facing Bryers, letting anger run into his face. "I was a cop once, I was in love with it then, but I'm not a cop anymore."

  "But with all the corruption gone—"

  "The way I see it, this is your way of keeping the feds happy by putting a lid on me. You know if you charge me with Coleman's murder I'll be out in six hours."

  Bryers just looked at him. "There's something else. The U.S. Attorney's office informed me that they're investigating a government leak they think breached national security."

  Paine said nothing.

  "It's serious stuff," Bryers continued. "They told me five to ten, just for being involved. They'd really like to find the leak."

  "All I want to do is find out what happened to Bob Petty."

  Bryers suddenly became very formal. He turned away from Paine, staring straight out through the glass partition, through the windshield of the car. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Part of the deal I made with the U.S. Attorney's office was that you stay in New York."

  "You made the deal, I didn't."

  "It's not that simple. If you try to leave New York, I'll have to arrest you for Coleman's murder."

  "But you told me—"

  "That's right. I told you. But I didn't say it was official. Officially, for the sake of the U.S. Attorney's office, I let the warrant stand."

  "I told you it wouldn't stick."

  Bryers was humorless, the bureaucrat again. "They've got a job to do. We all do. Is this your office?"

  The car had stopped in front of Paine's building. The driver in front sat unmoving, hands on the wheel, waiting. Paine said, "Thanks for the ride."

  As he was getting out of the car Bryers put his hand on Paine's arm. "Think about my offer." A hint of a clinically friendly smile came back to his face. "Like I said, it would be good for everybody."

  "Good for you?" Paine said, and Bryers removed his hand from Paine's arm.

  "Everybody," Bryers said, stonily.

  Paine got out of the car and closed the door. He watched Bryers make a motion to the driver, and then the car pulled away from the curb and moved off.

  24

  All the lights were on in Paine's offi
ce. The door was open. The air conditioner was on, rattling unsuccessfully in the window, making noise, pushing hot air into the corners of the room.

  Anapolos was sitting on Paine's chair, behind his desk, going through his mail.

  Paine stood in the doorway and said, "I just got out of Police Chief Bryers’ car. You want me to call him back and report a breaking and entering?"

  Anapolos looked up at him mildly. "Do what you want, Mr. Paine. We'll let the lawyers settle it. If you read your lease closely, you'll see that I have the right of entrance. I have a key for the premises, and I used it."

  "I don't have a lawyer," Paine said. He crossed the room, walked around his desk, and grabbed Anapolos by the shirtfront, yanking him up out of the chair.

  Anapolos gasped, his eyes going wide. "Mr. Paine, the lawyers—"

  "I told you I don't have a lawyer," Paine said. "I don't need one."

  Holding Anapolos tightly by the shirt, Paine danced him back around the desk to the front and dropped him into one of the padded chairs.

  "Mr. Paine, Mr. Paine. . ." Anapolos gasped, trying to regain his breath along with his dignity.

  Paine sat behind his desk and drew a key from his pocket. Ignoring Anapolos, he fitted the key into the lower righthand drawer of the desk, unlocked it, opened the drawer, and brought out a portable cassette deck. There was a tape in it, and Paine rewound it.

  "Listen," Paine said. He pushed the Play button, and both he and Anapolos listened to Koval and Kohl's antics in Paine's office, the threats, the short fight, Koval's whining announcement that Anapolos had sent them to beat Paine up.

  Paine turned off the tape recorder, removed the tape, and put it in his pocket. He rummaged in the back of the open drawer, found a fresh tape, unwrapped it and put it in the machine. He put the recorder back in the drawer, slid it closed, locked it, and pocketed the key.

  "Anything to say?" Paine said. "Should I get a lawyer?"