Blood in the Water

by Michael Prescott

  “Always open,” Mama said cheerfully. “I never close.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  In Maritime, she guided the Jeep into a low-income neighborhood near the hospital. The area consisted mostly of housing projects, but these projects were nothing like Crossgate Gardens. Here, people lived in neat little bungalows with postage-stamp yards and cars up on blocks in driveways.

  She parked on the street. Before going inside, she circled the Jeep, poking around the chassis. It took her less than a minute to find a matte-black case, the size and weight of a cigarette pack, magnetically affixed to the Jeep’s right front wheel well.

  It was a GPS homing beacon. The Long Fong Boyz must have planted it last night, after leaving her on the beach. It explained how they’d found her at the hotel. They hadn’t shadowed her; she was sure she would have spotted a tail. Instead they’d tracked her on a computer or cell phone, using a web interface that drew her location in real-time on a map. When they saw that the Jeep was stationary in the vicinity of the hotel, they’d driven down from Jersey City to see what was up.

  Of course she could disable the tracker or just chuck it into the nearest garbage bin. But she didn’t want to do that. Now that she knew about it, the homing device could work to her advantage.

  She left it in place and jogged through a mist of rain to the front stoop of Mama Blessing’s bungalow. She waited at the screen door, neither knocking nor ringing the bell. Mama would know she’d arrived. Mama was always watching.

  In a few seconds a matronly woman ambled into view, her hair coiffed in a high-rise updo bound in an African head wrap. A Malcolm X sweatshirt bulged over her considerable frontage. Turquoise rings glittered on every finger. Her feet, Bonnie noticed as the door swung open, were shod in pink bunny slippers.

  “Hey,” Bonnie said, stepping into the parlor. Gray daylight filtered through the windows, providing the only illumination. “I see you survived Sandy.”

  Mama clucked her tongue. “That bitch didn’t scare me. I sat in the dark and ate potato chips and listened to Miles Davis on my iPod all night long.”

  Bonnie found herself wanting another cigarette, but she resisted the urge to light up. She knew Mama didn’t approve of smoking. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have cared, but she respected Mama. More to the point, she needed her.

  “Got cleaned out last night,” she said briskly. “I’m looking to rearm with some heavy steel.”

  “How heavy?”

  “You got an assault rifle? I mean a real assault rifle, not the bogus ones they show on the news. Full automatic, banana clip, major stopping power.”

  “Sister, you sound like you’re in trouble.”

  “No. I sound like I’m planning to make trouble.”

  Mama nodded, unruffled. Bonnie had never been able to determine her exact age—it had to be somewhere between fifty and seventy—but she knew Mama had been in the business long enough to be unsurprised by any request. She’d been dealing guns in the neighborhood since forever, and paying off the cops to look the other way. She didn’t make much of a secret of it; hell, even her sweatshirt showed Malcolm toting a gun. When she wasn’t hawking small arms, she baked macadamia nut cookies for the local kids. Bonnie had tried a cookie once. It was delicious.

  “I do have an item that would suit your needs,” Mama said, setting herself down on a lumpy overstuffed couch. “TEC-9 conversion job. Built in eighty-nine; it’s old but well maintained. Takes a fifty-round extended magazine. Fires a thousand rounds a minute. You can shoot your whole wad in a three-second burst.”

  “That’s what I’m looking for.”

  “Never known you to buy a full automatic before. Aren’t you the one who told me it’s cheaper to buy a semi and convert it yourself?”

  “Yeah. But right now I don’t have the time.”

  “This is urgent, huh?”

  “I need it yesterday.”

  “You can have it here and now. But it’ll cost.”

  “How much?”

  “A grand.”

  “That’s pretty steep.”

  “You’re pretty desperate.”

  Bonnie couldn’t deny it, but she went through the process of haggling anyway. Five minutes later she’d talked the price down to $700 for the gun alone, with ammo to be purchased separately.

  “Deal,” she said, peeling off bills from a roll she’d taken from her office safe this morning. With the ATMs out of service, she’d figured she would need cash. “Now let’s talk about those fifty-round mags.”

  “I’ve only got one.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  They settled on a price, and Bonnie peeled off another hundred bucks. Mama Blessing spent some time folding and refolding the currency, which then disappeared into the deep valley of her cleavage. She left the parlor without a word. Bonnie stood around looking at porcelain figurines and photos of Mama’s grandchildren until the woman returned, the gun in her hand, the long magazine already inserted.

  “You want it gift-wrapped?” She always asked that. Bonnie was never sure if it was a joke.

  “Brown paper bag will be fine.” It was how she always answered.

  The merchandise went into a Shop-Rite bag. Bonnie tucked it under her arm.

  “Nice doing business,” she told Mama with a smile.

  The woman was watching her. “This isn’t a hit kit, young lady. Just what are you up to?”

  “I’m in a war. This bad boy ought to neutralize the enemy’s advantage.”

  “You can do a lot of damage with a piece like that.”

  “I intend to.”

  She headed back out into the rain. Mama Blessing stayed behind the screen door. “Stay safe,” she said.

  Good advice. But at this point it was no longer possible.

  - — -

  Back in the car, Bonnie jumped on the phone again, tracking down Walt Churchland’s home number and giving him a call.

  “Sparky? It’s your new best friend, Bonnie Parker. You know that video camera you were bragging about? I need to borrow it.”

  “I don’t really lend it out.”

  “You do now. Or your boss finds out who his fish swam off with.”

  “Shit. You’re blackmailing me?”

  “I’m calling in a favor. I did you a solid. What goes around comes around.”

  Churchland lived in a ground floor apartment in Algonquin, not far from the fish store. Bonnie parked outside and met him at his door. He did not appear happy to see her.

  “That it?” She nodded at a squarish, toaster-size camera in his hand.

  “Um, yeah. I don’t feel too good about this.”

  “Really? I feel great. Tell me about the camcorder.”

  “It’s a Panasonic AG-DVC30. I bought it on eBay. It’s an expensive piece of equipment.”

  “Right, right.”

  “You won’t be subjecting it to harsh treatment, will you? I really don’t want it damaged.”

  “Do I strike you as the kind of person who takes foolish risks?”

  “Very much so.”

  “No worries. I’ll bring your AC-DC back in one piece.”

  “AG-DVC.”

  “Whatever.”

  He spent some time teaching her which buttons to push, how to set the tape speed, and how to import video from the digital videotape cassette to a computer via a four-pin FireWire input.

  “I got FireWire on my laptop,” she said. “Never use it, though.”

  “All you need is an EEE 1394 cable.”

  “Don’t have one. But I’m betting you do.”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “Fork it over, Dr. Venkman.” She thought this was pretty good, but he didn’t even crack a smile. “You know, Peter Venkman? In Ghostbusters?” Still nothing. “Oh, come on.”

  He regarded her with a cool stare. “I don’t joke about the paranormal.”

  “Fair enough. So where’s my EEE thingy?”

  He got the cable for her but didn’t hand i
t over. “You can shoot video with your cell phone, you know.”

  “Not in the dark. This toy of yours can do that, right?”

  “Yeah, in infrared mode.”

  “Good.” She held out her open palm. “Gimme, gimme.”

  He surrendered the cable. “You’re a real pain in the ass.”

  “Don’t I know it.” She hefted the camera. It was heavier than it looked, maybe six pounds, but it fit snugly in her hand.

  “What do you want it for, anyway? I can’t believe you’d go ghost hunting.”

  “Oh, I’m hunting, Sparky,” Bonnie said as she headed out the door. “But not for ghosts.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Frank was heading up north, thinking he’d check in on things in Jersey City, when his phone chimed. It was Victoria, calling to say there were two police detectives at the house. “I think it’s about Alec,” she said in a low voice.

  “What are their names?”

  “Murphy and Cruz.”

  “Have ’em wait. I’ll be there. Meantime, just take care of the kids and keep your mouth shut.”

  He took a detour to Saddle River. The drive home was quick enough, not that he was in a hurry. Let the two bulls rest their cans.

  Murphy and Cruz. A mick and a spic. He didn’t know them, but all cops were the same. Half of them were on the take, and the other half wanted to be. They were all secretly fascinated by criminals—jealous of the gangster life. Scratch a cop and you’d find a frustrated mobster underneath. Most of these guys would’ve been made men if they’d had the nerve. Frank despised them.

  He wasn’t worried about the cops, but he was a trifle concerned about what had happened in the lobby. He’d nearly made a fatal mistake. It had required all his willpower to resist pulling the gun and blasting that bitch to hell. Only the thought of doing her a different way, a much better way, had stopped him.

  She’d been baiting him, sure, but he should have been able to take it. A loss of control like that—it wasn’t like him. Or maybe it was, these days. The guy at the A&P … When he was younger, even a few years younger, he wouldn’t have taken that kind of chance over something so small.

  He remembered how he’d come down on Alec for being headstrong and reckless, not enough in control to be part of the team. Now he was one the taking crazy risks. It bothered him.

  The thought crossed his mind that Santa Muerte might have had something to do with it. In praying to her, giving himself to her, maybe he was giving the black beast free rein. Opening up the channel to his animal self a little too wide. Letting it take over more and more, so that while he might think he was still in control, he was only a puppet moved by unseen forces.

  He was not an introspective man. He couldn’t hold on to the thought. It brushed up against him and drifted on, and by the time he parked in his driveway, it was forgotten.

  He got out of his car, noting the Ford Taurus on the street, obviously the detectives’ ride. In the living room he found the two cops seated on the sofa, sipping coffee. Upstairs, the twins were crying, while Victoria did her best to soothe them with a lullaby.

  “Gentlemen,” Frank said in greeting.

  “Hello, Mr. Lazzaro.” That was the Irish-looking one, who had to be Murphy. “Can I call you Frank?”

  “Sure. Can I call you dipshit?”

  “There’s that Old World charm. Sorry to take you away from your business, whatever that might be.”

  Frank appraised them as he took a seat in his favorite armchair. They were typical plainclothes humps, all dressed up in suits and ties, but with faces that belonged on a loading dock. Dumb apes carrying badges. If Howie Springer had been here, he would have advised Frank not to talk. But Frank knew he could more than hold his own against a couple of lightweights like these two. He wouldn’t even have to break a sweat.

  “It’s import-export,” he said smoothly. “And Sandy’s playing hell with my inventory, so if we could skip the foreplay and get right to the point …”

  Murphy smiled. “Of course, Frank. We don’t want to waste your time. When was the last time you saw your nephew, Alec Dante?”

  Frank had already decided how to play it. Total ignorance. Like Sergeant Schultz, he knew nothing.

  “Alec?” he said, shifting his features into a quizzical expression. “He in trouble?”

  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Cruz spoke up, scowling. “Just answer the question.”

  Good cop, bad cop. What a load of fugazy bullshit.

  Frank furrowed his brow. “Last time …? Shit, I don’t know. Maybe two, three weeks ago. He’s called me a couple times since then.”

  “About what?” Cruz wanted to know.

  “He wanted to get together, have a beer.”

  “But you blew him off?”

  “I been busy. Now what’s the deal with Alec? Why are you interested in him?”

  Cruz ignored the question. “How about James Rocca and Paul Belletiere? When was the last time you saw them?”

  “I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  “They’re two of your known associates.”

  “You got bad intel. I don’t know any Rocca or Belletiere.”

  Cruz scowled harder. “Sure you don’t.”

  Frank braced his hands on the armrests, preparing to rise. “So, we done here?”

  Murphy raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to know why we’re asking about Alec?”

  He realized he’d made a mistake. He tried to recover. “I didn’t figure you were going to share.”

  “Oh, we’ll share.” Murphy was still smiling, always smiling. A real friendly guy, was Murphy. “Your nephew’s in some trouble, Frank. It looks like he’s been a bad little boy.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You haven’t seen it on the news?”

  “I don’t watch the news. Too depressing.”

  “None of your friends or, um, business associates have called to tell you what’s up?”

  “Nobody’s said nothing. You gonna bring me up to speed or what?”

  “Sure, Frank. We just came from Alec’s condo building. There was a break-in, sort of a home invasion, in the unit directly below his. You should’ve seen it. It’s a fucking slaughterhouse in there. Two victims—the doorman and the unit owner, a dentist named Walling. Both fatalities.”

  “What’s that got to do with Alec?”

  “Some of the other residents reported there’d been trouble between Alec and this Walling guy. Sounds like it got ugly. Your nephew was partying hard, making Walling’s unit unlivable. Walling wanted to sell, but the noise issue made it impossible for him to unload the place.”

  “Yeah, well, things are tough all over.”

  Cruz leaned forward. “People say Walling was scared of your nephew. They had the impression Alec might have threatened him.”

  “This neighbor sounds like a weak link. A loud stereo makes him want to sell out? Jesus. How about he buys some earplugs and a pair of balls?”

  Murphy shook his head. “The noise wasn’t the only reason he wanted to move. He needed to get out of the neighborhood. It seems his wife had a situation.”

  “What situation?”

  “She was raped on a PATH train late one night. After that, she wanted out of Jersey City. But the upstairs neighbor problem meant they couldn’t move the property or even rent it out.”

  “You’re telling me the wife’s a rape victim? Well, shit, Sherlock, there’s your perp. Whoever jumped her on the PATH train probably tracked down her address and came looking for more. Find that asshole, and case closed.”

  “No such luck,” Murphy said. “We already found him.”

  “You what?”

  “We picked up the rapist two days ago. Undercover officer caught him in the act of another sexual assault. He’s been in lockup the whole time.”

  “Maybe the guy you nabbed didn’t do the Walling rape.”

  Cruz wav
ed this off. “He did it. He already confessed.”

  Frank couldn’t make any sense out of that. Walling had said Alec did the rape. That was his whole motive for hiring Parker in the first place. Wasn’t it?

  “So it wasn’t the perv who killed Walling and the doorman,” Cruz went on. “And there’s something else.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “We went to your nephew’s building because we were looking for him. He’s a person of interest to the authorities on Devil’s Hook Island.”

  “You know that cottage he keeps there?” Murphy said. “It’s a crime scene. This morning the local cops were doing a sweep of the island, and they found two dead bodies there.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Rocca and Belletiere. Both shot to death. And Alec’s car was there. But no Alec.”

  “That’s fucking crazy.”

  Cruz took a long pull on his coffee cup. “It’s been all over the news. But you haven’t heard a thing, right?”

  “What can I say? I only follow sports.”

  “So you didn’t send Rocca and Belletiere to the cottage? Maybe to check on Alec for some reason?”

  “I told you, I don’t know shit about any of this.”

  Cruz stared at him over the rim of the mug. “Then why were your boys on the island, Frank?”

  “They’re not my boys. I don’t know them.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot. You been to Alec’s condo today?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you were never in Dr. Walling’s unit?”

  “What, you’re trying to put that on me? Gimme a break.”

  Murphy shrugged amiably. “Just asking. Actually we’re more interested in having a talk with your nephew. You wouldn’t happen to know where to find him?”

  “No clue. You think Alec killed all these people? You think he’s on some kind of murder spree?”

  “The thought did cross our minds. But there’s another possibility. The Devil’s Hook cops found a parking garage ticket in Alec’s car. It places him in the vicinity of Crossgate Gardens on the night of October 22. You know what happened then?”

  “Nothing good, I’m guessing.”

  “You guessed right,” Cruz said. “An Asian banger named Joey Huang got capped. So what we’re thinking, Frank, is maybe your nephew did the hit, and Joey’s homeboys came after him.”