19 Souls

by J. D. Allen

  Dan looked back to Jim. Why he wanted a washed-up PI’s protection over the police’s, Jim would have to puzzle out later. “How much did she pay you?”

  Not a conversation Jim wanted to have at the moment. Stupid facts like that eat away at a man. Like when his client wanted to know how many times their spouse cheated or what the girl’s name was. The guy cheated. Move on.

  “I mean, you’re still under some type of financial agreement with her, right?”

  “She gave me a substantial retainer.”

  “Any of that left?”

  “A good deal.”

  Dan nodded. “Then I would like to hire you, Mr. Bean. Using the balance of that retainer.”

  That was a great way to spend the money. Better than Jim blowing it at the blackjack table.

  Dan looked at Miller. “As my protection and an extra investigator.”

  “Dandy,” Miller growled and glared at Jim. “When you stick your nose in my cases, Bean, people tend to get hurt and/or killed. You live in a bubble of bad luck and misery. Don’t bring that into this situation.”

  Jim wasn’t sure how to break it to him, but there was no way to turn that shit off.

  19

  “You find the whack-jobs like no one else, Bean.” Ely tapped away on one of his many keyboards.

  Jim rubbed his eyes so hard he saw spots. It was late. He was beat, the long drive with the distraught young man then the interrogations, and he was done for.

  From Jim’s angle the monitor Ely was reading looked like a wave of green static. The events of the past few days replayed, highlighting his inadequacies and his fears on one short mental film. Trusting the wrong person. No. The wrong woman. He’d been living loose and reckless for years. Since college when he lost everything. Lost it all because a woman lied.

  His life altered, distorted by a false accusation. He’d quit really caring about people. Working on autopilot. Job to job. Bottle to bottle. Culminating in dead bodies because he was more interested in cash than seeing Sophie’s intentions as she sat across that table from him and lied. Lied her ass off. There was a time he’d have read that like yesterday’s comics. Known her story before finishing the headline.

  “I do.” He lifted his gaze to Ely. “A damned curse.”

  “Suppose you were marked by banshees at birth?” He said it in a hushed tone.

  “Banshees?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever creature crawls into children’s beds and marks them so the dark and devious are called to them.” He looked up from the screen. “I’ll look it up later. Know I read it somewhere.”

  “Don’t bother. I don’t want to know that shit. I want to know where to find Sophie Evers.”

  Annie wrapped around his legs and gave him a little half mew. He reached down and pulled her up so she could prop on his shoulder. Her approving purr vibrated against Jim’s collarbone.

  “Not sure why she still likes you. Was here more than she was at home this week.”

  At least the cat loved him no matter what. Well, as long as there was plenty of food around. “Absence makes the cat grow fonder?”

  “I guess, man,” Ely said. The screen changed from the green mess of characters to a browser Jim was more familiar with. “Here we go.”

  Jim wiggled his rolling chair a little closer. “Sophie Ryan Evers. Born in Grapevine, Texas. Father died of drug overdose. Location of mother, a Belinda Evers, is unknown. Sophie entered the foster system at fourteen months old.”

  Jim leaned over the records. “Aren’t most babies readily adoptable?”

  “She had some signs of fetal drug syndrome. Probably got her looked over.”

  “Doesn’t have any retardation or signs of birth defects now.” Drug dependency might explain some of her neuroses. Dan hadn’t mentioned her ever doing any drugs. If she was getting away with murder, Jim suspected she was clean.

  Ely clicked away. “Her foster records are going to be harder to get.”

  “Social services?”

  “Yep.”

  Jim scratched under Annie’s chin. “Arrest records?”

  “Nope.”

  “Try Lulu Strong. She used that alias here.”

  He clacked away. A different page opened on the monitor. A Nevada license came up. Same as the one Miller had. Cab company registration. Address listed as the Crabtree Hotel, south Vegas. Not a nice place.

  Jim paced to the kitchen counter. Annie leapt off his shoulder.

  “Wait a second.” Ely typed a little more. “Found something on Lulu.”

  An arrest record came up. The picture was a dirty young black woman. A mug shot after a bad night. Her right eye was swollen and red.

  “Prostitution?” Jim asked.

  Ely nodded. “And drug charges.”

  “My guess is Miss Lulu came to a bad end.”

  “If so, that makes four.”

  As Ely stood and stretched, about fifty bones cracked. The skeletal sound made Jim shiver. Ely had lived through a nightmare as a POW in Nam. The man had seen everything and done even more. It showed in his leathered face and his lanky frame. A very slight limp on his left leg was the only hint of any disability. Didn’t slow him down or make him any less lethal. Jim would take him as a second in any situation.

  “Correction: four that we know of. She’s got a taste, Bean. Sounds like Sophie’s drug of choice is violence.”

  “Not good.” Jim’s phone chirped in his pocket. He answered. “Miller, was about to call you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Dan settled?”

  “Yes. His mom is a hoot. But that’s not why I called.” There was a moment of background noise.

  Jim chose to take the opportunity to give his info first. “The identity Sophie used was a pro with an arrest record.”

  “We got that too. Sent someone to see if any of the other girls knew this Lulu or has seen her. I’m hoping she was paid to leave and not killed.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Yeah. I got a call from a Dallas FBI field office. An Agent Webb saw our BOLO. They will be here by eleven tonight. Wants a one-on-one with you and Dan while it’s fresh.”

  “What’s the FBI want with this?”

  “Says there’s more to the case. I’ll bring them to the house.”

  “Great.”

  “I’ll probably lose control of the situation at some point if this girl’s got an open federal jacket.”

  “Got it.” Jim did. And that made the prospect of his staying involved rather slim. The FBI didn’t take to PIs all that well. Or maybe it was just him.

  20

  Jim approached the address of the safe house. It sat one lot off to the right of a tight cul-de-sac. New neighborhood. The kind with the low price points for first-time buyers. Cheaply made and so much alike it was hard to distinguish one from another. The development was far enough north to keep the price at casino worker level and still close enough to work on the Strip.

  One unmarked car sat on the left side of the double drive, a black Crown Vic. Not too obvious, but enough that this smart-assed chick would see it as a cop car right off the bat.

  Jim would have been happier if the place was a ranch. Two floors divided the area and made covering it harder. But it had a nice front porch and fake grass. Almost-middle-class quaint. A plainclothes sat on the porch swing smoking. He sized up Jim’s car as he approached.

  Jim swung through the cul de sac and parked past the house in front of the neighbor’s. Ely’s car was a gold, dull, no badges, late model whatever sedan. Easy to miss. Hard to remember.

  The officer stood as Jim got out. He relaxed when Jim waved. Most officers had seen him on stakeouts or around the courthouse. PIs were not always the cop’s favorite—Jim included—because most of their work came from defense attorneys.

  Prosecutors had the
entire police force to gather evidence for a case. The defense needed its own investigative team. Often Jim was it … if the case was being handled by a low-rent attorney with a tight budget.

  Inside the house was as ordinary as the out. He scanned the layout as he followed the officer. A short hall led back to a larger-than-

  expected living area, open concept. He could see all the way from the front door to the kitchen and the back door. Sliding glass. Didn’t care for that.

  “Well. If it ain’t the reporter again. You need a close up of me for your story?”

  Lynette was in the same rolling chair from the nursing home. Here she looked younger. The non-florescent light gave her back twenty years. Jim now figured her for early sixties. Too young for this kind of memory loss. Not remembering this day will be good for her. Small favors.

  Her fist balled up and under her chin, smiling big and pretty, ready for a portrait.

  “How are you, Mrs. Hodge?”

  “Fine as pie. My baby boy’s here. He got us this swanky room for my birthday. Whatcha think about it?”

  “It’s a great spot for a birthday. It today?”

  “Nope, tomorrow. He’s bringing cake, you know?”

  “And a clown face.”

  Dan came in. He shook Jim’s hand and leaned close. “She knows nothing.”

  No mention of Cynthia. Got it.

  Her medical assistant was the big guy from the home. The one she was yelling at the end of Jim’s visit. He brought her a mug. “Lynnette, don’t spill this one.”

  She giggled. “I will if I want, Steven, and you’ll bring me another then too.”

  “I should go right on home and leave you to all this.” He turned to Jim. “Not sure what I signed up for here. She’s even more of a smart ass than usual. All excited to be out.” He stuck a meaty palm out. “Steven.”

  Lynette barked at him. “And hang up my papers.” Her chair rolled like she was on the ice rink as she crossed the tile floor. She skidded her feet to stop just short of the wall by the back sliding glass window. She snatched a couple of the articles out of an open box on the floor.

  The leather furniture sat empty and uninviting around the fireplace. The tiles inside it were pristine ivory, the logs old and dry. That fireplace had never seen a spark. Like a show house full of rented furniture, cold and stiff. It reeked of Rental World.

  Steven didn’t seem worried. “When I can quit making you tea over and over again, I can do that. Sit still and drink that, old woman.”

  Dan chuckled. “They really do love one another.” He patted Steven on the back as Lynette Hodge let out an indignant grunt. “Always felt good knowing you were there.” He looked down and then back up to Jim. “But to know Sophie was in her room makes me sick.”

  “I’ve been with Lynette for a while now. Nothing’s happening to her with me around.”

  This was Jim’s chance to ask some questions before the Feds showed. He pulled Steven toward the kitchen. Dan followed. Lynnette was busy sipping her tea and looking about the window. Jim glanced over to see that it was locked and barred along the bottom. “Did you see Sophie when she was in Lynette’s room?”

  “I see everyone that comes into any of my patients’ rooms, if I’m on my shift. Can’t vouch for the others. Some don’t care so much. Usually we see family, a few old friends, sometimes a pastor. I recognize most of Ms. Lynette’s visitors. I knew there was a stranger there so, like I’m supposed to, I checked with the front desk. They said she was okay. Nothing looked threatening. A pretty woman making one of my patients laugh and smile generally is no concern. I kept to my rounds.”

  No help. “So you didn’t talk to Sophie Evers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Steven.” The distress in Lynette’s voice made all three men turn to her. She was red-faced as she looked down into her tea-soaked lap.

  “Good, glorious Lord Jesus. This is why I give you lukewarm tea.”

  Steven fussed with her skirt. Dan looked on, dark circles becoming evident under weighted lids.

  Jim made a quick assessment of the rest of the first-level floor plan. Front and back door only. A stairway was evident from the back of the kitchen area. He followed the hall back to the front door. Master bedroom on the left. Master bath, one small window. Bedroom was smallish, two windows overlooked the side yard.

  The hair on his arms twitched with minor air movement and he smelled the hint of dime store cologne as someone came into the room. He felt no threat. No reason to look away from his inspection of the latches.

  “Upstairs are locked too. I checked. There’s an officer up there sleeping.”

  “The night guy?”

  “Girl.” Dan had his hands buried in his pockets. “I want a gun.”

  “What for?”

  “So I can protect my mom.”

  Jim hated guns. Never carried one. “Guns get people dead.”

  “Exactly.”

  He huffed. “Usually it’s not the right people who get dead, Dan.” He knew that for a fact. “You have two uniforms and me. Lynette will be safe until we find Sophie.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “Relax. Spend some time with your mom. Read.”

  “Read?”

  “Yeah. There were some classics on that bookcase. Try The Great Gatsby.”

  “You’re serious?” Dan held his gaze. He was trying to read Jim’s face. “Hated that book.”

  Jim smiled. “Me too.”

  21

  Miller showed first. It was almost nine o’clock. Steven had taken Lynette to get her settled in bed for the night.

  Miller tossed a folder onto the kitchen table. A Lady Fed in a black suit marched in, another agent behind her. The folder she carried was several inches thicker than Miller’s.

  The second suit stood by the glass door. The agent in charge. Feds seemed to move around the world according to their pecking order. Often it looked like a pack of dogs following an alpha.

  They all looked very unhappy to be there, no matter where they fell on the FBI food chain. Sometimes Jim was glad his path into the FBI Academy had been blown to pieces back in college. Sometimes.

  The lady agent’s suit was impeccable but not highly expensive. Her shoes more serviceable than dressy. Her weapons were hard to spot at first but he noted at least two. She didn’t smile as she made her way to the head of the table. She obviously assumed she would be taking the lead.

  Miller stood. “I’m Detective Miller. We met … ”

  “On the Porter case two years ago.” She gave him a curt nod.

  “Right.” Miller hadn’t extended his hand to shake but Jim got the feeling that if Miller had put his hand out there, she’d have left him hanging.

  Her gaze snapped to Jim. “You the PI Sophie Evers hired?” She opened the folder, flipped a couple of pages over, and scanned.

  “Jim Bean.” He said it sharply. Didn’t want her to think he was intimated by the suits or the badges. He’d been in court on many occasions and had to face off with some pretty hefty characters. An FBI agent didn’t faze him.

  Her brow pinched as she looked back down and read a few more lines. “Okay.” She glanced at him and back to the page. Obliviously it was his paper. His jacket. “Jim Bean it is then.”

  Jim’s grip tightened, he eased his balled fists behind his back. Why would she, the FBI, have information about his history, the changing of his name? It’d been a straight legal change. His records were supposedly expunged when all the charges were dropped. But it appeared she knew something anyway. And why would they need that kind of info on this case? He was not the target of this investigation. The room got a little warmer. What the hell else did she have in that fat folder?

  She slid into the chair at the head of the table. “Special Agent Ava Webb.” With no foreplay she started slidin
g pictures of dead men toward Dan. He cringed.

  Miller pulled the pics away from Dan. “Who are these men?”

  The gnarled look on Miller’s face said he was biting his damned lip to keep from telling this woman where to shove those photos. She should have brought this to his attention first. Discussed it before shocking a witness.

  “When you put the BOLO out on Sophie Evers it triggered a case I’ve been working in Texas for years. These three men were drug dealers and/or pimps in South Dallas. All were killed within a three-month period. All had their throats cut. The scenes were messy. No drugs, money, or weapons left behind so we suspect the murders were a means to robbery.”

  She looked down. “All had had intercourse just before dying. But there were no viable DNA traces left behind. They’d been crudely cleaned with bleach spray. Likely she slept with them to get their confidence and killed them just before—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Danny took his dirty cowboy hat off and set it upside down on the table beside the pictures. It did a nice job of blocking the view of the mutilated bodies. “But what’s this got to do with my sister?”

  “Twisted trail but hang with me.” She looked at Miller. “I do have a point.”

  “Make it.” Miller’s face was easing up.

  She turned her attention back to Dan Hodge. Looked him straight in the eye with the authoritative gaze of a woman in charge. She held his gaze, not saying a word, until his head tilted just enough to give the impression he was asking for more info. She knew the moment he was ready to listen. Agent Webb was good.

  She tapped the third photo in the row. “A video surveillance camera near the back on this one’s apartment caught a woman leaving the building with a large duffle bag and a bad disguise. Not enough for an identification in the tape.” She thumbed through the file and supplied the picture. Dan eyed it carefully.

  “Two more dealers turned up about a month later. These guys weren’t pimping. All they did was sell cocaine. The area was a little higher rent. And the victim’s both had slit throats. This time, the wounds were much cleaner. The crime scenes were cleaner. Showed fewer signs of struggle. Each was robbed blind. One of them was reported by one of his drug runners. Dumb girl called it in because she said the guy was holding a thousand dollars of hers and she wanted it back.”