Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Lee Lamothe

  “What was that all about, Djun’, up there, you and Sally? Sisterhood stuff?”

  “Ray, Ray, Ray.” She felt pretty okay. The end of it all might be near. Paris was around the corner. She’d done good by being good. “Dream them dreams, bucko.”

  Hambone Hogarth said, “Did Sally say anything stupid?”

  “Nope. But she doesn’t have any problem, now, I don’t think, if we want to hack old Ansel’s nuts off. She thinks he might’ve done it, is viable for the women. She overheard me getting the lowdown on Ansel’s rapes. There were two of them, the first reported after the second. Rohypnol, both times, same M.O., took them out of a skating rink, home for a boning and a bath. I got the duty security guy on the conference room door. Nobody in, nobody out, until we get back up there.”

  Ray Tate said, “Is Marty still in there?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She laughed. “Oh, yeah, I heard them through the door. They’re talking up a storm. A little tense, it sounded, but they’re good buddies by now, I think.”

  Hambone Hogarth said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. No talk. You told her not to talk to him, Ray. You made a deal.”

  Ray Tate stood up. “Yeah, you’re right, Ham. I’m going to have to sit Marty down after this. No fibbing, I’ll tell her, and make her stay after school. Chicks, what are you going to do?”

  “You know, Ray, this doesn’t have to go farther. Corey Garnett is still viable. Ansel goes to trial and a lot of dirty stuff’s going to come out.”

  “We’ll be in Paris,” Djuna Brown said. “Write us and let us know how it sorts.”

  Chapter 26

  When the elevator doors opened they could smell the gun smoke. The duty desk security officer was sitting on the floor in the anteroom beside the door, his legs splayed, painfully gasping, “Holy fuck holy fuck,” looking down where his vest had four evenly spaced tears. His gun was in his hand and he stared at it with deep curiosity as if it was an exotic food, as though he was wondering why he’d be holding an eggplant. The door to the conference room was closed and there was no sound from inside.

  Ray Tate came up on his right side and secured the gun away. He told the guy to relax, the vest had absorbed it. “Who did what? Who’s outstanding?”

  The duty desk guy had trouble speaking. “She outranks me, by about six. She said she was going in. I said no. She pulled her piece and got me, point- blank.”

  “Buck up, how many outs?”

  “Nobody outstanding. Her, I guess. I dunno. I went out for a second, couldn’t breathe. She could’a left.”

  “How many shots, inside?”

  “Dunno dunno dunno. Some. Fuck.”

  “Ham,” Ray Tate said, “roll the gun trucks. This could still be live.”

  “Easy, Ray, easy. We don’t need tacticals here yet. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

  “This isn’t going to sort, Ham. This is major fuckup incident.” He called out, “Marty, Marty, you okay? Sing out for me.”

  The conference room was silent.

  Djuna Brown moved toward the door, her gun out. “Marty?” She sounded panicky. “Marty, please.”

  Behind her, Brian Comartin stood frozen.

  The duty desk officer moaned loudly. Djuna Brown told him the shut the fuck up. “Four in the vest, suck it up, man. I’ll give you one in the ear, we can compare. Button it, Alice.” She cocked an ear to the conference room door. She shook her head.

  Brian Comartin was a slow processor. But when he figured things out he went for the door, shouting, “Marty? Marty?”

  “Chill, Brian. Take it easy, man.” He didn’t stop and Ray Tate took him around the waist. Brian Comartin still had chops like a young cop. He kept moving like a ship, dragging Ray Tate in his wake.

  Ray Tate yelled, “Ham.”

  Hambone Hogarth took a collapsible baton from his back belt and pressed the button to extend it. He took Brian Comartin across the shin with a back-handed whip and he went down, Ray Tate wrapped around him. “Cool it, Brian. Don’t make this worse, okay? You cool?”

  Brian Comartin rolled, clutching his shin. “Okay, yeah, no. No, Ray, we gotta go in. She could be bleeding out.”

  “Chill. Let’s see.”

  The conference room was quiet. In the anteroom the duty desk guy was breathing hoarsely. Brian Comartin was clutching his shin, moaning. Djuna Brown was constantly licking her lips.

  Ray Tate and Hambone Hogarth looked at each other.

  “What the fuck, Ray?”

  Ray Tate took his cellphone from his pocket and punched a number. Inside they could hear a cellphone emitting.

  Then it stopped. “Officer Frost.”

  “Marty. Marty, Ray, what’s up, hon’?”

  “He’s dead.” Her voice was flat.

  “Are you hurt, Marty? Can you get to the door, come out and see us? Let us see you’re okay?”

  “I can, Ray, but you know what? I’m just too tired. Come on in, it’s okay.”

  “Marty? Any unsecured guns in there? How many people down? Is Sally still in there, with you? You need ambulances?”

  “No. I know a dead man when I see one. An-Sell bit the big one, trust me.”

  “Come out. Brian’s out here, he’s worried about you.”

  “Tell him I’m okay.”

  “I’m sending him in, unarmed. Is that okay? Should I worry about him? About Brian coming in there, unarmed?”

  “Brian’s okay. Send him in.” She sobbed. “I’d never let Brian get hurt.” She laughed. “Brian. How about that? Me and a poet.”

  “One second, Marty. He’ll just be a second.” He told Brian Comartin to take off his jacket. He yanked at the Velcro to free the duty desk guy’s vest, then put it on Brian Comartin and secured it. “Brian, I don’t know what’s going on in there, if Sally’s holed up with her. I told her you’re unarmed, but I want you to put a piece down the back of your pants, okay?” He stuffed the security desk guy’s Glock behind Brian Comartin’s belt. He put his face close to his. “She said she loves you, man. You’re a lucky guy.” He thought for a moment, wanting to get it right. “But if things go to shit, use the piece. I mean it. At the end of the day, you go home and cry.”

  “She said that? She loves me?”

  “Yep. Crazy about you.” He tried to read Brian Comartin’s eyes. “We can wait. The guys on the gun trucks can do it.”

  “Okay, Picasso. Okay. I’m going in.” He seemed dazed. “You guys should move back a little, just in case Ansel’s got a gun. When it’s clear, I’ll sing out.”

  “She said he’s dead. But he could be making her say it, to get us in there. Or Sally.”

  “Marty wouldn’t do that to us.” He got angry. “What’s the matter with you, Ray?”

  “Okay. But, Brian? End of the day, you go home. That’s number one. Use your training. Do what you have to do. End of the day, you go home.”

  Hambone Hogarth said softly, “He’s shaky, Ray, maybe you’re right. Let’s back off and get the boys with toys.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, this is bad.” He held up his hand. “Brian, hold, we’re getting the gun trucks.”

  Brian Comartin turned and took the gun from the back of his pants. He loosely held it in Ray Tate’s direction. His eyes were shining.

  “No, Brian,” Djuna Brown said. “Not Ray.”

  Hambone Hogarth moved in front of her, completely blocking Brian Comartin’s view. He held his right palm up, then slowly moved his hand to the skirt of his jacket. “Go on in, Brian, okay? Slow, though, okay, man? I’m going for my phone, okay, she might be hurt in there and we need some help for her, all right, man, just going for my phone, if you want me to stop moving say so, okay, I’ll stop, we’ll talk about it, look slowly, slowly.” He took his phone from his belt, keeping his eye on Brian Comartin and the gun. From behind him he heard Djuna Brown’s automatic slip from the leather holster. She held it flat against his back; he could hear her breathing through her nose. “Let me make the call, Brian, get some help for her up here. Okay, they
’re picking up … Hogarth, Homicide. We have a red incident. Roll the gun trucks and ambulances, a couple at least. Seal the building, man the elevators. No one to this floor unless they’re in full combat, including tactical paramedics.” He paused a moment, glancing sharply at Ray Tate. “Yes, I got it. I’ll deal with that later.”

  Brian Comartin wiggled the gun. “Back, Ray, you too, and hang up.” He waited until they’d moved well away from the door. He stood with his hand on the knob, then let go and stripped off the vest and threw it on the floor. He tossed the gun onto it.

  He opened the door and the strong smell of gun smoke came out. He limped inside, a thick fat man with red hair and a hope of poetry.

  He called out, “Marty?” as if he were yelling hopefully down a well.

  At the top of the room, Ansel Partridge was face forward over the conference table, his face in the array of photographs of the poor dead ladies. Slightly on his left side, his hands were secured behind his back.

  Brian Comartin didn’t know so much blood came out of a gunshot to the head. There was a lot of it. On the wall behind Ansel Partridge at about head height there was spatter of unrecognizable stuff. It amazed him, in a detached kind of way, what a vast carrying vessel a skull was. He’d once taken a wineskin about the same size full of red to a bullfight near Seville and, holding it up and squeezing it, he thought it held an impossible amount. Spain, he thought, it won’t be like this there.

  Marty Frost was sitting in a chair midway down the conference table, her cellphone and her gun in front of her.

  Otherwise the room was empty.

  “Marty? I’m going to let them in, okay? Ray and Djuna are worried. They think you might … you know.” He made a laugh. “You might shoot me.”

  “You better take the gun, Brian. Secure it.”

  “No. No, you keep it there.” He sat down opposite her. “I’m gonna sing out, okay? Let them know we’re okay, we’re okay.”

  “Yeah. Djuna sounded pretty freaked out. Sensitive girl. A Statie, you know?” She shook her head. “That girl and her beatnik.”

  Comartin called out, “Ray, hey, we’re okay. Ansel’s dead. Sally’s gone. We’re just taking a break, okay? A minute or two, then you can come in.”

  “Okay. Ah, Brian … ah, what’s my name. The other morning on the river? Tell me something.”

  “Picasso.” He thought for a second. “‘Hey, Picasso, you got a reason for being here?’”

  “Okay, Brian. But I’m gonna open the door. Just gonna push it open a little, okay, we won’t come in, but we have to see.”

  “Okay.”

  Martinique Frost gave him a wan smile. There were pinches of white in the brackets around her lips. She nodded at the gun on the table. “That’s not professional, Brian, leaving a weapon around. Bad policing.”

  “Yes, well, we don’t do that stuff anymore.”

  Hambone Hogarth moved to the edge of the door and quickly ducked his head around. Then he did it again, memorizing the scene. “They’re sitting at the table, she’s on the far side, he’s on this side. There’s a gun out on the table.” He ducked his head again. “They’re holding hands. Fuck’s that all about?” He ducked around again. “Partridge is down and out. Three serial homicides cleared. Two rapes. Eighteen mass murder. What a fucking week.”

  “Let’s give them another minute, Ham.” He turned to Djuna Brown. “Djun’, holster your piece. When the droids on ’roids come in here in their tin hats they’re not gonna want to see anyone with a gun out.”

  Hambone Hogarth held up his cellphone. “Ray, they told me downstairs, outside in the parking lot there’s a Porsche with a dead woman inside. A blonde. In the duty sergeant’s slot. The guys ran out when they heard the shots and they took Sally into custody. Fuck man. What a fucking mess.”

  “The blonde, I don’t know her name, but she’s, was, the hottie with the black-rimmed glasses. Lieutenant Somebody. She and Sally were … together?”

  “The one with the slow walk?” Hambone Hogarth said, “Well, there lies a busted dream.”

  Djuna Brown walked softly to the door. “Brian? Can I come in? I really want to see Marty’s okay, man. Just for a sec. I’ll leave my gun out here with Ray. Brian? Please, Brian.” She looked around the door. “They’re getting up. They’re coming out. There’s a gun on the table, they left it. She looks okay, Ray, she isn’t shot.”

  When they came out, Djuna Brown tried to hug both of them. “You guys, you guys.”

  Out in the hallway there was a rattle of equipment. A gun barrel with a mirror attached to it peeked around the open door.

  “You all cops in there?”

  Ray Tate called out, “Yeah. We’re good.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that. Any unsecured firearms in there?”

  “We’re armed and there’s a handgun unsecured on the table in the conference room. Police weapon.”

  Hambone Hogarth identified himself. “This is a homicide stage. Come in careful.”

  “Don’t think so, Ham. We’re shy. We want you to come out to play with us. And today we’re playing the Simon Says walk backwards on your knees with your hands on your head game or get shot.” The mirror moved around. “That guy on the floor, the officer, what’s his story?”

  “Took a bunch in the vest.”

  “Been there, done that. If he’s bleeding, we’ll come in and get him, but otherwise he gets to go last.” The mirror moved again over them. “Eenie meenie minie moe.” The mirror stopped. “The little lady there, I spy with my little eye a telltale bulge, so the jacket comes off and she comes out first.” He laughed. “Didn’t know there were children present. Somebody call child welfare, we got a waif in her sleepy slippers.”

  Behind him someone laughed and said something.

  The voice behind the mirror said, “Okay, Miss in the magic slippers, stop me if you’ve heard this before but …” It was an old joke, it sounded like from the laughter outside, among the droids on ’roids. “… First you get on your knees …”

  It took a while. The tactical guys were humorous throughout but patient and very specific. Everyone, even Hambone Hogarth, came out on their knees backwards and had their faces held to the floor while they were frisked, relieved of their weapons, and made to sit under a machinegun.

  Once they were all out, a two-man sweep team went through the anteroom and past the duty desk guy still looking at his vest, seemingly amazed at the great strides in Kevlar technology. The sweepers did the peek and duck at the conference room door, then went in. A moment later, one lit off a whistle; two tactical paramedics in combat garb scooted into the anteroom and started on the duty desk guy. They lit off a whistle of their own, and two guys in ambulance outfits and vests came in and ran the duty desker out on a gurney.

  “We got to separate you guys,” the man with the voice behind the mirror told Ray Tate. He looked very young and had acne under his helmet. “Big brass balls are on the way and they’re calling the shots.” He made a smile. “But, you know, we’re just out to kill people, not tell them what to do.”

  He gathered his guys and they trooped out.

  Ray Tate said, “Marty, you okay? Brian? What happened?”

  Marty Frost rotated her neck as if she had a cramp. “I heard gunshots outside, in the waiting room, then right away the door came in and Sally had a gun. I could’ve shot her, but how do you shoot a cop? She was screaming something. By the time I figured it out and went for my gun, she’d unloaded a bunch into Ansel and ran out. Why’d she do that, Djuna?”

  “Ansel’s her lover’s cousin. I think the two of them whipsawed her, got a bunch of city money, used her up. She was sad. She thought a goddess loved her and that made her as beautiful as her voice.”

  “Okay, kids,” Hambone Hogarth said. “We shouldn’t say nothing to contaminate the interviews.”

  Ray Tate said, “Fuck you, Ham. Kiss my fucking white ass.” He asked Brian Comartin if he was okay.

  Brian Comartin didn’t say a
nything to him. He put his arms and around Marty Frost and said, “I thought you’d killed him.”

  She leaned back and gave him a smile. “If I’d’a shot him, amigo, I’d’a shot his fucking cojones off.”

  “You speak Spanish?”

  “Just the good dirty stuff.” She ran her hand over his face. “We’re done, right, with this business? We going to Barcelona?”

  “Marty,” Brian Comartin said. “Bar-tha-lona. Jesus.”

  He looked insanely happy to be hooked up with such a dolt.

  Hambone Hogarth’s team showed up after the tacticals had left. Ray Tate, Djuna Brown, Brian Comartin, and Martinique Frost collected their guns and were escorted out by teams of Sector detectives to separate locations.

  Through the open door, Ansel Partridge was still visible, sprawled on the table. Blood from his head wounds had soaked the stack of photos of the poor dead ladies and audibly dripped off onto the floor. It looked like he was examining the photos close up and taking his time about it.

  Hambone Hogarth gathered the Homicide team. “Okay, guys, here’s what we got —”

  The detective-sergeant leading the team said, “Ham. No. Don’t dirty us up. Let us go to work.”

  “This investigation is going to fly high, Tommy. You gotta know —”

  “We don’t care. We don’t wanna hear about it. Let us go to work. You know the drill. Go downstairs and bug the guys doing the dead one in the Porsche, let them tell you to fuck off. Just make yourself available for interviews, okay?”

  “Tommy, this guy in there —”

  The lead detective put his hands over his ears and chanted. “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you … Danny, take Inspector Hogarth down for a coffee.” He paused a beat. “You heeled, Ham? Where’s your piece?”

  “Fuck, I dunno. The tacticals put us through and took it. Probably it’s down at Peter’s Pawn and Loan by now.”

  “Goodbye, Ham. See you in about an hour.”

  Ray Tate told the interviewing officer they were working a serial killer case. Ansel Partridge had emerged as the prime viable. He was an agent for Sally Greaves, and had been drilled into the Volunteers. “We told Sally we wanted to talk to him, that he was viable, and she brought him here, upstairs, for an interview. She thought he didn’t do it.”