Not Forgiven: A Thriller and Suspense Novel: Ungoverned Series

by Shawn Raiford

  "It's delicious, Mrs. Marquez," Mitch said.

  Leaning over, Henry enjoyed the warmth of the cup. "Ma'am, we just need to speak to your husband because our victim was last seen at Aldo's last night and he may have seen her or even talked to her. We are trying to find anyone who was at the restaurant last night."

  She sipped loudly, staring at him.

  "We are trying to establish a timeline for the victim, and anyone who saw her last night could shed some light and help us greatly," Mitch said.

  Her shoulders slumped forward. "Well, he isn't here, you can see for yourselves. He did not come home last night. He may have stayed at the other house last night."

  Mitch glanced at Henry. She was aware of the love shack! "Other house?"

  "Rogelio got a DWI some years back and hated how the police officers treated him."

  They said nothing.

  "He had one too many at Aldo's and tried to drive home. A cop pulled him over, but he didn't have his wallet. The cops told him to breathe into the machine. He did and registered over the legal limit and was arrested on the spot for driving while intoxicated."

  They said nothing.

  He put his cup down on the coffee table and Mitch pulled out his notepad.

  "His solution wasn't to stop drinking and then drive home to me, it was to stay at a nearby hotel. That's what he told me, but he bought a little house. He thinks I don't know, but wives always know."

  "So you think he's there now?"

  She hiked up her shoulders. "Probably, he's there about half the time these days."

  "Do you ever go there to check on your husband?"

  Mrs. Marquez sat with her back straight as a board. "Oh no. That would be too cliché."

  Mitch read his notes and Henry examined his tea as it cooled. In situations like this, it was okay if one of them took notes, the other listening, and paying attention to the person's face.

  Mrs. Marquez continued, "I am not fond of that house, because that's where he takes his whores." She took another sip.

  A grin grew like a weed on his face.

  She had known about her husband's love shack. There was a certain reality to life.

  Henry took another sip, meeting her eyes. Wives always knew.

  Mrs. Marquez shrugged. "Gentlemen, Rogelio and I are in our fifties now. He fathered all of my children. Rogelio gave me a great house, cars, jewelry, clothes. I have had a great life as a kept wife. If he needs to have sex with other women to make him feel like a man, who am I to stand in his way."

  Mitch and Henry said nothing.

  "Besides, I know my husband better than he knows himself. You men will mess around behind our backs regardless, so why not give my husband permission? He does love me! Look around, he hasn't left me for any slut. I am the one he chose."

  Henry, as a inspector and as a husband, was aware that marriages, at times, were hard. Money was the number one issue that plagued marriages. Sex, or the lack thereof, was the number two problem.

  Mrs. Marquez appeared to be indifferent to her husband's affairs, but she could have killed Candice if she and Rogelio were having an affair. She talked like she didn't care, but who knew what she really thought.

  "That is mighty enlightened of you, Mrs. Marquez," Mitch commented. He, an actual card-carrying cynic, believed everyone was born bad and had to work at being good. Mitch, most of the time, didn't like people.

  "I admit that when I found out about the sluts, I was miffed, but I found solace when I found a lover myself."

  "Oh?" Mitch coughed.

  "Yes, I found this big beautiful black man. He was working his way through college and I hired him as our pool boy, but I don't think he ever cleaned the pool once. He worked for me for almost two years, but he stayed busy," she said. "If you understand my meaning."

  Mitch and Henry said nothing. At times, the best thing to do was let people talk as they might say something incriminating.

  "Since the black boy, Lamar or perhaps Lonnie? I don't remember but I have had three more pool boys, another black young man and two Mexicans. They all took their jobs seriously and kept me very happy."

  Mrs. Marquez messed with them, having fun telling them about her lovers.

  They needed to find Rogelio soon, so they had to head towards the love shack. "I believe we have learned as much as we can here. Do you have an address for the other house, Mrs. Marquez? We need to talk to your husband."

  She went to fetch a notebook and paper, wrote something on a sheet and tore it from the notebook. She handed the sheet to Mitch, with both hands, cupping his. "This is the address."

  He smiled. "Thank you, ma'am."

  "You are quite welcome." She paused for a moment, staring at him in the eyes. "You have such pretty eyes. . . uh, I'm sorry I forgot your name."

  "Inspector Mason, but you can call me Mitch, ma'am."

  "By the way you were staring at me, you aren't married, are you?" She turned to face Henry. "This one is married. I am a little older but I can still draw men's attention."

  Mitch was such a hound dog, never allowing an opportunity to go to waste. "No, ma'am, I am single, and yes my partner is happily married with two beautiful kids."

  Mrs. Marquez returned her attention to Mitch. "You know, I am in need of another pool boy, you want to apply for the job?" She handed another folded sheet to him. "My number's on there."

  Henry assumed it was her phone number and was left wondering when she wrote it down for Mitch. Women could be sneakier than men when they wanted.

  Women came onto cops all the time, so Henry and Mitch had to be disciplined. Henry trusted his partner to make the right decision. Wait until the case ended and then call her if interested.

  Henry and Mitch each thanked Mrs. Marquez for being so helpful. They would be back if they had any follow up questions.

  "Oh, yes please do come back, and you, Henry is it?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You can come here anytime you want, bring your swimming trunks," she said, staring at him as if he could scratch an itch she couldn't reach.

  She winked at him. "I won't tell your wife if you don't."

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Sicko

  Other than the one in the car, no other thugs were outside.

  The way the thug kept looking down the street then back at the house told me that he called in reinforcements and was patiently awaiting their arrival.

  No time to waste. I entered the kitchen through the same hallway that accessed the bedrooms and the bathroom; there was always time to have a snack. That sandwich, earlier, did not suffice. I craved cookies: chocolate chip were my favorite.

  Killing scum made me hungry.

  Opening up the fridge, I saw a half-full gallon of milk and a pot with a lid. Didn't need to see the contents, I was positive it was tasty. Any Hispanic woman that I had ever known, including my mother, was a terrific cook, had to be in the genes. There was a plastic container, sitting next to a pot, but I didn't want to take the time to discover its contents. Also, there was a can of whipped cream and about ten different kinds of condiments. A few choices, but nothing easy to eat.

  I didn't bother searching in the freezer, opening the pantry. Like the fridge, it brimmed with foodstuffs that needed to be prepared. However, I did find a package of Snickers.

  I took one out and had a snack while I checked the drawers. Finding utensils, I placed two steak knives in my back pocket. Then I searched a catch-all drawer. There were knick-knacks and a couple of candle sticks. Closing the drawer, I went back to the bedroom.

  Frogger held onto his bad knee.

  While I unholstered one of my HKs, the thought of Timmy's smiling face made my stomach churn.

  I shot Frogger in his good shoulder.

  He screamed.

  "Does it hurt?"

  His body writhed. "You bitch! I'm going to kill you!"

  The threat carried zero weight. In fact, he was in no condition to stop a flea much less me.

  Un
able to spend quality time with him, I had to speed things up. First, I grabbed a six-plug electrical strip with an LED ON/OFF button from the living room, and then I went back to the bedroom.

  Frogger wore a cocky grin across his face. "My crew is going to find you. We will all rape you and take turns. We will keep you around as a pet for years."

  He used the word we too much.

  It was a sign of mental disease. Herd mentality, a prevalent ailment in many facets of modern society. "We need to" or "We are going to" parroted by the political elites throughout the world. In other words, they are saying, "You're only a number, nothing more, and you need to sacrifice yourself for the greater good." However, these elites, themselves, never sacrificed personally.

  The same could be said for street gangs.

  I have never been a groupthink gal.

  Self-sacrifice for the greater good always benefitted the ruling class, or the ones at the top. To hell with the 'we' and the greater good. I sacrifice only for me and mine.

  Gripping my HK handgun by the barrel again, I slammed the butt of the gun down on Frogger's good knee. I was pretty sure the knee cap shattered. Quite painful from what I'm told.

  He bellowed a symphony of pain—music to my ears.

  Yanking the power cord from the two lamps on either sides of the bed, using my pocketknife to strip the end of the frayed cord, exposing enough bare wire.

  Pleas to take him to the hospital were loud, but I ignored him. I wrapped the exposed wire around the blades of the two steak knives that I retrieved from the kitchen. Next, I plugged the lamp cable (with two bare wires) into the electrical strip. Then I plugged the electrical strip into an electrical outlet next to the bed, making sure it was turned off.

  "What are you doing?"

  "This is for Sarah and Timmy!" I yelled, stabbing the knives into his thighs.

  He screamed, threatening me again. "I'll ki…"

  I flipped the ON button on the electrical strip.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Unable To Scream

  Frogger's body tensed. His jaw clenched. His fingers curled down in to fists. Wrists bending, his elbow bent, bringing in his fists, slapping his chest. Legs tensing, his knees bent somewhat.

  Sitting next to him on the bed, I figured he hurt. From firsthand experience, I knew he hurt.

  Once, I had to deal with some Albanians. Not many Albanians in Houston, nonetheless enough of them lived here to make you want a Tetanus shot.

  The Albanians had a gun deal with Lukas, and met with Stan, Lukas's son. Once the Albanians had Lukas's guns loaded up in their van, they opened fire, killing two of Stan's guys. Stan escaped because he happened to be sitting behind the wheel and drove off.

  Stan Zimmerman was inbred stupid, but lucky.

  Instead of demanding money upfront, Stan had given them the guns first.

  Both Stan and the Albanians were stupid.

  While hanging out at a bar popular with Albanians, I took some pictures and sent them to Stan.

  Stan informed me about who was who, including their boss, Ditmer, who sat in the corner.

  After introducing myself, I offered to blow Ditmer behind the bar if he paid for my drinks. Told me that he wanted more than a bj, even offered me 200 bucks. I accepted. We left the bar and went to his office. I thought having him alone to myself, would not be difficult. I was wrong.

  Explaining in poor English, Ditmer told me that he suffered in an Albanian prison.

  In retrospect, I should have been able to see that Ditmer was mentally unstable just from the way he looked at me. Creepy. Later, I found out that Ditmer got off on torturing people. Something the sicko learned while in prison.

  His office was inside a warehouse; told me he ran a shipping company. Entering his office, the Albanian offered me a drink. I accepted, because he offered Jack Daniels. Didn't worry about it being spiked because I watched him make the drink.

  While I sipped my drink, Ditmer acted, moving much quicker than I thought the man could move. Hitting me on the side of my head, Ditmer knocked me out. I woke up a couple of minuts later, ropes bound my wrists and ankles to a chair.

  My legs hurt too—Ditmer used wires wound around nails.

  When the juice was turned on, my eyes wanted to pop out of my head.

  As the pain coursed throughout my body, the Albanian pulled his dick out, getting off on my pain. Sicko.

  After the pain coursed throughout my body for what seemed like hours, the sicko finally turned the juice off, and pulled the nails out of my thighs.

  Playing possum, kind of, slipping down to the floor after he untied me. I figured the mentally unstable Albanian planned on killing me. Ditmer picked me up off the floor, throwing me onto the bed, unzipping his fly, taking his pants down. I didn't give him a chance to take them all-the-way off. I brought my knee to my chest and extended my leg. The heel of my high heel hit him in the temple. He went down faster than a young actress in a big Hollywood director's office.

  Stepping off the bed, woozy and realized that the sicko was on all fours. I put him in a chokehold. Finally, he passed out. Despite his body's thick density, I was motivated to hurt him. Gathering the physical strength, I put him in the chair and found the rope he used to tie me up.

  Ditmer awoke; I jammed the wire-wound nails into his legs and turned on the juice.

  His entire body went as stiff as a board.

  I left the juice on for a minute. His body dropped in the chair, and his mouth drooled. The sicko talked when I threatened to turn the electricity on again. He told me Lucas's money was in a closet down the hall. Once I had the money, I turned on the electricity and left Ditmer alone, to cook.

  Frogger was unable to scream.

  The electricity contracted every muscle in his body which made breathing difficult, which made screaming impossible. Wrists bending, his fingers curling, he appeared to be crippled.

  Sitting on the bed next to him, I stared at him, scratching my eyebrow. His entire body was a stiff board of meat. "Frogger, you killed children, and you don't deserve to live. If I didn't want more of your homies, I'd take you somewhere special and work on you for days, so you're in luck."

  Tears ran down his cheek. The pain, I knew, was all-consuming.

  My eyes glassed over, and then tears ran down my cheek. The tears weren't for this piece of shit. Just allowed myself, for a brief moment, to feel the loss of my friend and her son.

  Death was sad, yet this life-jarring shit happened every day of the week. The world kept turning, even after the death of a loved one. The world did not care about you or your feelings. Although you felt dark and shriveled up on the inside, time ticked on. People, living their lives, laughed at jokes. Children giggled while their mothers tickled them, and in-love couples kiss in the park because they were in love.

  Snapping out of it, a muffled sound. Cars began pulling up in front of the house.

  Good.

  With my shirt, I dried my tears.

  It was them, Triple H.

  Thugs poured out of the cars, and all had weapons.

  Some wore smiles as if they anticipated a good time. A good time indeed would be had, however not by all.

  Taking in a deep breath, I quickly counted the number of thugs, calculated.

  Then my phone vibrated.

  It was Henry.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Nobody Would Blame Him

  Fonzo watched as the cars arrived.

  Four cars in all.

  His homies spilled out of each car. Beto walked up to him. A look in his eyes told Fonzo that he was ready. "Sup Beto?"

  "Here to help! So what's up?"

  "I heard a shot, I checked it out and saw a white lady inside. She had a gun."

  Bull got out, all six foot, four inches, 350 pounds of him. No one ever messed with Bull, except Happy. A memory of an instance of a year ago popped into his head.

  Happy yelled at Bull for sleeping in late one morning. He had to go down to the border
to pick up a shipment of coke. Bull mouthed off and Happy punched him.

  Bull defiantly stood his ground, fighting back, gave as good as he got. Happy, all five foot eight, and 180 pounds, won the fight. Happy broke several of Bull's fingers and knocked out a couple of his teeth.

  Bull stared at Lola's house, not moving from the side of the car.

  Mr. Chivo, or just Chivo, got out from the driver's side and walked up to him. "Sup Fonzo?" They shook hands.

  Another homie, Jay, walked up to him too.

  He pointed to the house. "There was a gunshot in the house, and I went up to each window until I got to Frogger's bedroom. I saw a white lady with a gun! And Lola was on the floor, but I don't know, couldn't see that good inside."

  "How did she get in without you seeing her, homie?" Bull asked, implying Fonzo allowed a stranger to enter the house.

  Fonzo took a step back, his fists balling up. He couldn't seem weak in front of the others regardless of who called him out although nobody would blame him to back down from Bull. "Hey man, Happy told me to just stay out here in the car. He didn't tell me I had to go around the house like some Brink's security guard!"

  Jay pointed to the house. "How do we get inside without making any noise?"

  Bull smiled, and responded, "I got a key."

  He had a key however this was Lola's house.

  "How you got a key to Lola's house, Bull?" Chivo asked.

  "Y'all need to chill. Remember last week when Frogger went to San Antonio to pick up that package for Happy?"

  "Yeah!"

  "He took Lola with him. They wanted me to house sit because they were gone for a few days, that's all."

  It was a believable story because no one bought for one-second that Bull was banging Frogger's old lady.

  Chivo informed everyone, "Happy does not want us to kill her."

  Everyone nodded.

  Chivo continued. "He says to shoot to injure, not to kill her. If you kill her, you'll have to explain it to Happy."

  Bull smiled. "Alright, ladies let's get this bitch!"

  They split up into two groups.