by Tracy Clark
Whip sighed, fiddled with the flashlight in his hand. “I got tired of screwing up.” I stood quietly, not sure what to say. “Uh-uh, stop with the sad eyes. Get on with what you’re doing, so we can get the hell out of here.” He turned for the garage. “I’ll check out there and see what I see. My car needs a muffler. I might get lucky and find one lying around.” He looked back, smiled. “See? That look you’re giving me right now? Proves there’s no way you could be a decent crook, you’re too upstanding. Besides, there’s no way I find a Hyundai muffler out there. Leon can’t turn a profit on low-end crap like that.”
I watched him go, thinking about the turns lives take, hoping it was true in Whip’s case that his criminal past was dead and gone, knowing I’d fight to make it true, even if it wasn’t. I turned back to the office, but I didn’t hold out much hope I’d find anything useful. Gangs, I thought, or organized crime. Maybe Spada was connected? Maybe Darby had been? The place didn’t look like it did a high-volume business. There’d been little activity my first visit here, only Leon and Buddha, just a few cars. That wouldn’t have been enough to interest any decent Mob outfit.
I could compare Leon’s prison time with Darby’s and check for overlap, I thought. I could do the same for Spada, once I found out his real name. Had Darby crossed Spada somehow? Had Darby crossed Leon? No honor among thieves.
I looked under the table and chairs, but found nothing but a few wadded-up nubbles of chewing gum. The office was a bust. The shop was a bust. Whatever was going on here wasn’t going on here now, and there was little chance anybody would be back. I swept my flash along the ceiling, my beam landing on a dusty skylight.
“Who puts a skylight in a garage?” I said loud enough for Whip to hear me.
“What?”
“There’s a skylight.”
“And?”
I stared up at it. “There is no ‘and.’ I just don’t see the point, do you? It’s a chop shop. Who’s going to sit in here and gaze up at the stars on a clear night?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“It’s a Benz. A two-door coupe. Stripped clean. Nice job, too. Leon’s guys are good.”
I walked out of the office to find Whip standing at the car, admiring Leon’s handiwork. The car was black, or had been before being liberated of most of its exterior panels. Darby drove a black Mercedes two-door coupe. I’d tailed it the first time I met him. I drew closer.
“Tell me they missed the VIN plate,” I said, checking the car.
Whip chuckled. “No self-respecting chop artist misses the VIN plate. What’s it to you?”
I swept my light over the car. “I think I tailed this car. Last time I saw Darby, he was driving a Mercedes just like this. It belonged to his boss, which I can’t prove without the VIN.”
“Well, if he drove it in here, he sure as hell wasn’t in any condition to drive it out.” Whip padded over to the passenger side, checked inside. “Nothing in here says Darby or Spada. It could be any black Benz.”
“Could be, but what if it’s the black Benz? Why leave it?”
“You’re forgetting the time factor.”
“No, if they were worried about covering things up, they’d make damned sure they took this car first.” I moved to the trunk, opened it, and found a knotted rope, like the kind sailors use to batten things down. I immediately thought of Tim’s boat. Is it Tim’s? I picked the rope up and found beneath it a single sheet of paper, which I picked up and read: I WIN. Just the two words. Written in big block letters. I held the note up for Whip to see.
“Doesn’t say it’s for you,” he said.
I turned it over. Spada’s letterhead was at the top. I eyed the rope, shone the light on it. There was blood seeped into the fibers. Darby’s blood? He’d have had to be restrained before he was killed. “This is Spada, which means it is for me. He’s gloating.”
The two simple words weren’t a confession, they were a taunt, but why even that when we were scrambling around, looking for evidence to put him away? I looked at the car again. Its presence here bothered me. The bloodstained rope, the blood possibly Darby’s, might also have trace evidence of his murderer on it. The note, too, might hold fingerprints, mine now, too. Why was Spada being so cavalier, so reckless? I sniffed, froze. “Do you smell smoke?”
Whip sniffed, too. “Yeah.”
We wheeled around, sniffing harder, trying to get a bead on the source of the smell. “There.” I pointed at the front door, at the black smoke beginning to billow in underneath.
“Well, that ain’t good,” Whip said.
Suddenly the floor, which had given off the faint smell of gasoline when we came in, began to smolder. We exchanged a panicked look and ran for the door, but when we reached it, the knob was already scorching hot and we couldn’t touch it. The smoke flooded in, the stench of gas grew stronger. Whip wrapped his hands in the hem of his T-shirt and tried turning the hot knob, his boxer’s muscles straining. No go.
“Locked from outside. Your picklocks?”
I eyed the dead bolt. The smoke was forcing its way in now, thick and fast. It now covered the tops of our shoes. There was no way I could get anywhere near that door. I shook my head, pointed to the overhead door. “Try this.”
We raced over and together tried raising the metal door, but it wouldn’t give, not an inch. Black, acrid smoke now slithered its way along the oily floor, undulating, crawling like a devilish snake, spreading outward, staking its claim. We gave up on the overhead, beginning to cough, wheeze, both of us desperate now for an out.
“That’s it for doors,” Whip said.
The smoke pushed us back toward the center of the room. My eyes began to water, my throat burn. I flicked a look at Whip. He was in the same boat. Flames suddenly shot up from the smoke and latched onto the front wall, the fire’s tentacles clawing its way toward the ceiling, one horrifying inch at a time.
“Cell phone?” Whip croaked.
“Yep . . . in the car . . . yours?”
“In my jacket.”
I glanced over at him. He wasn’t wearing a jacket.
“In the car.” He coughed. “Next to your phone.”
The office was the only place the smoke hadn’t yet gotten to; we pedaled backward, then turned and ran for it. Halfway there, I peeled off and headed for the Mercedes. I needed that rope and the note. I knew now why Spada left it behind. He intended to burn the car, the note, the rope, and me in this dilapidated garage. He knew I wouldn’t let things go. He had to know that once the laundromat got cleared out, this would be my next stop. He planned the fire, knowing it would obliterate everything, including me.
“Cass, c’mon. Leave it.”
“Go.” I reached the trunk, dove in. “I’m coming.” I stuffed the note into my back pocket, the rope under my belt, then turned and sprinted for the office, meeting Whip at the door.
“That was stupid. Nothing’s worth your life.”
“There could be evidence on it. DNA. He wants it all to go up in the fire.”
My eyes burning, I searched for a landline, but didn’t find one. And why would there be? I thought. This was a chop shop. Who were they going to call? Who’d be calling them? I could hear the fire roaring now and see the dance of reds, blues, and yellows reflecting off the glass in the office door. The fire crackled, hissed, whooshed, the dangerous sounds enough to make a person’s blood run cold.
Whip faced me, the neck of his shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth. It was a temporary solution. The fire was hungry, eating up the oxygen we needed in big, fat gulps. Soon it would take it all. I shut the door, but that wouldn’t give us more than a few more seconds of living. We were in trouble. Big trouble.
* * *
Smoke slowly rose from the oily floor. The ravenous flames would follow. They’d quickly hit the Mercedes, and if there was gasoline left in the tank, the two of us were going to go up like bottle rockets. I thought of my car and the Molotov cocktail. What was it with
Spada and fire?
I tugged on Whip’s sleeve, pointed up. “The skylight.”
He followed where I pointed and gave me a thumbs-up. The small window in the ceiling was the only shot we had.
“We need a ladder,” Whip said. “Stay here. I’ll go look for one.”
I pulled him back. “We both go. Stay low and stay together.” I took the lead as we pushed out through the door, back out into the garage, keeping low, watching the flames, scouting for anything that would get us up and out. Half crawling at one point, our lungs quickly filled with smoke and our vision blurred. We didn’t have long. The doors were now completely engulfed and the front wall was a sheet of fire. Maybe someone passing along on the outside would notice and call the fire department. Maybe they wouldn’t. It seemed like forever before I spotted an old painter’s ladder propped against the back wall, but my elation was short-lived. The ladder was sitting next to several cans of house paint, the sight of which caused my heart to seize, and then nearly stop. Flammable, toxic paint and Darby’s discarded Mercedes, likely filled with gas. This was not going to be pleasant.
“Here.” I called out to Whip, who was right behind me, his hand on the small of my back for guidance. We lifted the ladder, Whip on one end, me on the other. We ran it back to the office, the sound of the fire taunting us and ringing in our ears.
We extended the ladder, set it up. “You first,” Whip said, his hands on the bottom rung to steady it.
“Like hell. You first.”
“This is no time to get coppy. Go.”
“Stop arguing,” I croaked. “Move. I’m right behind you.”
Whip coughed, sputtered, and started up reluctantly.
“Wait.” I handed him my gun. “You might have to break the glass. Hurry.”
He headed up, fast, looking back every rung or two to make sure I was keeping my word to follow him up. I eyed the ladder. It didn’t look as though it could hold both of us. I would have to wait for him to get off before I got on. It was not lost on me that this was now the second time tonight that I’d trusted my life to a rickety ladder.
I checked the progress of the fire, turned back to Whip. He’d made it to the top, but he was struggling to unlatch the window. The fire grew, getting meaner, closer, louder. Whip put his shoulder to the glass and pushed, but it still wouldn’t give. When he turned my gun over in his hand and smacked the butt of it against the glass, it didn’t break. The glass in the office door shattered. I turned to see tendrils of red flame forcing their way in, thick black smoke rushing in behind them. We had seconds, if that. I looked up again, willing Whip to move faster. He struck the glass again and again and again . . . until it finally shattered. I sidestepped the falling shards as best I could, then hustled up, the fire now practically nipping at my heels. I could barely see. I climbed by feel alone, then missed a rung, and tumbled back down, just catching hold of the ladder before I hit the smoldering floor. I started up again, faster, more desperately. When I reached the top, Whip grabbed me by the arms and pulled me through the jagged hole.
“Move!”
I felt my back pockets, my side, and my heart sank. The rope and note weren’t there. “Wait. Stop. They’re gone.”
They must have fallen out when I slipped off the ladder. I scrambled back to the skylight and peered back through the opening. The floor was covered in smoke now, the flames just moments from flashing over. Even still, I grabbed the ladder, preparing to go back in. I could make it down and back, I thought. I had to.
Whip pulled me back by the scruff of my shirt. “Are you out of your mind?”
I tried twisting out of his hold. “I can get it. I only need a few seconds. Let me go.”
He spun me around, grabbed me by the shirt, and shook me hard, his eyes intense on mine. “You’re not going anywhere but over the side, got it? It’s gone. You’ll get him some other way. Now I said move!”
I pushed him off, screaming out in frustration, but knew he was right. I felt the crushing weight of defeat overpower me. It was dark, bottomless. I’d just lost my best chance at getting Spada. I’d let solid evidence literally slip through my fingers. I was angry at myself, angry at Whip, angry at the world. Spada had won. He’d beaten me. He was going to get away with all of it. Whip headed for the edge of the roof, but wouldn’t go another step without me. “C’mon.”
“No, we need the ladder.” I was thinking clearly now. “Grab it.”
Struggling, we managed to haul the smoking ladder up and out through the skylight, holding on to it for dear life, as we lay, for a moment, gulping in air, our backs to the flat roof. When we got our second wind, we eased the ladder over the rim and leaned it against the burning building. This time, I went first, but only because we didn’t have time to argue about it. Another ladder climb, another opportunity to end up dead. Whip and I hit the street, coughing, bleary-eyed, and took off running as far away from the chop shop as we could get. We’d just made it across the street, a safe distance away, when the flames went nuclear. Something inside—the car, the paint cans—exploded and the roof of the building blew off and rained down onto the street. Whip and I watched in horror as the fire ate the chop shop alive.
Whip doubled over, gasping for air. “That almost sucked.”
I turned to face him, wheezing, both our faces covered in soot and grime. “Almost? What part of that didn’t suck?”
Despite his distress, he began to chuckle, then laugh. It had to be nerves. No sane person could find humor in what we’d just gone through. I eyed him curiously. We’d come uncomfortably close to burning alive, which had to be the worst way to go out, and I was in no laughing mood. Whip collapsed onto the curb, watching the fire, rivulets of sweat and tears streaming down his face. I squinted toward where I thought I’d parked the car and headed that way. I needed my cell phone to call 911. Halfway, I flinched and ducked as, presumably, another paint can went up.
Somewhere close, a car engine turned over and I reeled to see a black SUV screech away from the curb up the street and disappear around the corner. I didn’t have to guess who’d just tried to bake us like an Easter ham. Nick Spada was getting desperate, which made him ten times as dangerous as before. The taunting was beginning to get under my skin, though. He was playing me, and I didn’t like it. He left those things behind for me to find, knowing I wouldn’t live long enough to tell anyone about them. He’d underestimated me.
I retrieved my phone, staring at the angry flames, kicking myself over the loss of the rope and note. Spada was wrong. He hadn’t won, not yet, not ever. I was alive and I was coming for him.
Chapter 45
My head lay nestled in the soft center of a giant marshmallow as I drifted along on a cloud. Time meant nothing, space either. I had nowhere to be. I closed my eyes, breathed, and took it all in, falling off to a contented slumber fit for baby angels . . . until someone dropped a hammer.
I jerked awake and looked up into the scowling faces of Detectives Pena, Mickerson, and Weber. I stared at them, and they stared back. No one spoke for a time. I searched my memory bank, trying to place where the hell I was. Fire at the chop shop, I remembered, then the mad dash down the ladder. I took a tumble, and lost the rope and note, tangible evidence Nick Spada was a craven killer. Then Whip went Rambo and stretched out the back of my shirt. I remembered fighting off the paramedics, who tried taking me to the hospital, and recalled identifying the Williams brothers in a lineup. I straightened in the chair. Police district. I was at the police district. I looked around, frowned. I was in an interview room . . . again, and I’d somehow fallen asleep. How long had it been since I’d slept in my own bed? I sniffed, grimaced. I smelled like burned rubber and spoiled cabbage.
I blinked up at the cops, my eyes feeling like someone had poured a gallon of sand in them. “How long have I been in here?”
Ben smirked, but didn’t answer. Weber just stood there, half smiling. I couldn’t quite peg what the other half was. Maybe he was rethinking his desire to date me
. I stood to even things up. “Look, I almost died today, tonight, yesterday . . . what the hell time is it?”
Marta glanced at her watch. “It’s seven AM. Friday. And you’ve been in here forty-two, no, forty-three minutes.”
I glanced over at Weber, and felt just a pang of self-consciousness. I wasn’t exactly looking my best. I’d come close to being eaten by fire and I was smoky, tousled, and singed at the edges. “Where’s Whip?”
“He’s in the other room,” Weber said. “We just talked to him, now we’re here to talk to you.”
Ben glared at me. He wasn’t happy. “So sit.”
“I’m good standing.”
“You look like you’re about to keel over, and you smell like you’ve been working the pit at the Indy. You call that good?”
My eyes narrowed. What is his deal? “I’m fine. Okay?”
“Dammit, Cass.” Ben’s face turned a splotchy red.
I picked up the chair I’d been sitting in, walked it to the door, and set it outside in the hall. When I got back to the table, it looked as though Ben might explode. I dusted my hands off, then plunged them deep into smoky pockets. “No chair. No sit. Can we move this along now?”
Marta shook her head. “Unbelievable.” She leaned back against the table. “I take that back. Since I know you, it’s all too believable.”
I ignored them and relayed the night’s events. Halfway through, I was kind of sorry I’d banished the chair to the hall. I really could have used a good sitting down, but Ben was acting snippy and strange, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.
“There was blood on the rope. It might have been Darby’s. And the note was written on Spada’s own letterhead. They weren’t meant to make it out of the chop shop. There was no plate on the SUV. If Spada wasn’t driving it, whoever was has reported back to him by now that his little ‘fire trap’ failed. What about the Williams brothers? Did they say anything?”
Marta scrubbed her face with her hands. She’d been on this thing nonstop since the Symonds place and it looked like it. “They’re the dumbest tools I’ve ever seen. It didn’t take long for them to roll over on Leon.”