The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  “Agent Hernandez, Mr. Marr. How are you?”

  “Thanks for calling back so soon.”

  “I was told you have some urgent information?”

  “Not so urgent, but important enough. Scott Davidson with you?”

  “He’s in the office, yes.”

  “Does he know you’re talking to me?”

  “No, why?”

  “Nothing at all having to do with him. It’s just something I feel should go directly through you guys.”

  “Okay. Stand by for a sec,” she says, and then I hear scuffling, like she’s moving somewhere else.

  I hear a door shut.

  “What do you have?”

  “You already know that I gave the location where you got Cordell Holm, so don’t try to pull all that top secret shit and not share anything with me. If you’re going to be like that, then I’ll give the information to someone else that’ll want it.”

  “Understood,” she says politely.

  “I know Cordell Holm got arrested in the house and so did one of his mopes, a kid named José. He’s the brother of Angelo. You remember Angelo, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I got this information from a very reliable source, and don’t ask who it is, because the source will not make itself available to you or, for that matter, to me anymore. According to the source, Angelo called in the hit on Edgar Soto through his brother José, and it was cleared through Cordell.”

  “But without a source—”

  “Let me finish. Cordell approved the hit, but used someone outside to do it. The officer who got shot. They called him Officer Tommy.”

  “What?”

  “It’s good information. You can trust that. The officer was a frequent guest at the brothel. He had himself a Latina girl there. I’m sure if you talk to some of the girls, put together an array, and convince them it’s in their best interest, they’ll identify him. Another thing I know well, because despite what you might think, I was good at my job—”

  “I never meant to give you the impression—”

  “You can apologize later. Listen now. You got Angelo and Viktor in jail, Cordell Holm on good charges, and this boy José, who was involved in Amanda Meyer’s abduction and probably rape. I’m sure you all got some other good stuff out of that house, and those boys are facing serious time. You set up debriefings with them through the U.S. Attorney’s Office, one after the other, and it’ll only be a matter of time before they all start rolling on each other.”

  “This is incredible, Frank, but I really need your source of information.”

  “Don’t ask that again, because it’s not going to happen. You have to work for this one. It might take a little time, but it’ll pay off, because everyone rolls.”

  “Will you be available to give a statement?”

  “Donna, close the fucking Edgar Soto case with some good legwork. I’ve seen your legs. They can work. I’ve given you everything you need to know, so be the hero and do it all yourself.”

  I disconnect.

  We’ll see how she plays it. I have a feeling she likes the idea of making a name for herself.

  Eighty-three

  I’ve got a nice chunk of coke on the glass table to chop up. I can’t think of anything better to do today.

  The doorbell rings and I nearly fall out of my seat.

  I peek through the curtain.

  Fuck. It’s Leslie.

  I run toward the door, but remember the coke.

  “Who is it?” I ask like an idiot.

  “Frankie, it’s Leslie.”

  I look back in the living room. I can’t let her in yet.

  “Leslie, just a minute. I’m not decent. Just wait a second.”

  “Okay, then,” she says.

  I run back to the living room, look at the chunk I’ve been cutting up. It’s gotta be more than an eight ball. I look around the living room and see the Washington City Paper on the coffee table.

  I grab it.

  “Be right there,” I call out.

  I open up the paper and put it on the floor near the glass table. I tip the table over it and scrape the coke into the newspaper with the razor, drop the razor in, too, fold up the paper, and slip it under the sofa cushion. I move a couple of pillows from the other side of the sofa to the cushion that covers the paper.

  The glass table still has white powder residue on it, so I brush it with the palm of my hand and lick it off. I look at the palm of my hand. No powder. I wipe the saliva on my pants and check my nose in a hallway mirror.

  I open the door.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Come in.”

  “I can’t right now, but thanks.”

  “I have coffee.”

  “Maybe another time. I took a detour on the way to the office. I just thought I’d try you at home, since I haven’t been able to get you over the phone.”

  “I meant to call back, but it’s been a little crazy.”

  “I can imagine. I’ve seen the news, and Ian Gregory called me. He told me everything. Damn, you really got her back.”

  “And you doubted I could?”

  “No, of course not, but you know this world. You know the odds.”

  “Yeah…”

  “You did good, Frankie. That’s all I wanted to say. And despite all the shit you recently put me through, I’m really proud of you.”

  Her smile might just feel better than the drugs.

  “Does that mean I’m forgiven?” I say.

  “You’re forgiven, but on probation.”

  “I’ll take that, then, ’cause I like the idea of having you as my parole officer.”

  “Don’t think that I won’t step you back if I have to.”

  “I’ll do my best to be good. Can we have dinner sometime soon?”

  “That would be nice,” she says.

  “There are a couple of new spots I’ve been wanting to check out.”

  “Me, too. Maybe the end of the week. Give me a call.”

  “I will.”

  She reaches up and kisses me lightly on the cheek. I want to make a turn for her lips, but don’t. It’ll just fuck up the moment.

  “It’s getting cold. Winter will be here soon,” she says. “Then, before we know it, Christmas and a new year.”

  She turns and walks toward her car.

  I step out on the porch.

  “I’ll call you at the end of the week,” I say.

  She turns to me and says, “Okay.”

  I watch her get into her car and drive. She makes a left on W and disappears.

  The holiday season is right around the corner. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and especially New Year’s Eve are the only holidays I don’t like spending alone, and I’m thinking she doesn’t either. She’s got a family like mine—pretty much nonexistent. Maybe she threw me a hint that we’d be spending this one together, too.

  So I feel damn good, and it’s not because I’m high or because of the nice stash I have tucked away. I have more than enough so I don’t have to worry for a while, but still, where’s the hope in that?

  About the Author

  David Swinson is a retired police detective, having served sixteen years with the Washington, DC, Metropolitan Police Department. Before joining the DC police, Swinson was a record store owner in Seal Beach, California, a punk rock/alternative concert promoter in Long Beach, California, and a music video producer and independent filmmaker in Los Angeles, California. Swinson currently lives in Northern Virginia with his wife, daughter, bull mastiff, and bearded dragon.

  davidswinson.com

  @casejackets

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Welcome
>
  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Part Two Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Sixty-six

  Sixty-seven

  Sixty-eight

  Sixty-nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-one

  Seventy-two

  Seventy-three

  Seventy-four

  Seventy-five

  Seventy-six

  Seventy-seven

  Seventy-eight

  Seventy-nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-one

  Eighty-two

  Eighty-three

  About the Author

  Newsletter

  Copyright

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2016 by David Swinson

  Cover design by Keith Hayes; photograph by plainpicture/Tim Robinson

  Author photograph by Mark Regan

  Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Mulholland Books/Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

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  mulhollandbooks.com

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  First ebook edition: June 2016

  Mulholland Books is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Mulholland Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-316-26418-1

  E3-20160428-DA-NF