Blood in the Water

by Michael Prescott

  Frank wasn’t happy to hear this. He hadn’t wanted the cops to make any connection between Alec and Joey Huang. Once word got back to the gang, they might drop their interest in Parker and focus on Frank’s organization instead. It would mean a gang war for sure.

  “Alec wasn’t into anything like that,” Frank said lamely.

  “Sure,” Cruz said, “he was clean as a whistle. Just like you, right?”

  Frank was getting pissed off all of a sudden. It was this taco bender, Cruz. The guy had an attitude. He didn’t show respect.

  He leaned forward in the armchair. “Let’s stop the fucking dance. You know what I am. But I made Alec keep his distance from all that. I never got him hooked up. I didn’t want that life for him.”

  “Maybe he wanted it for himself,” Murphy said. “Maybe he did the hit on his own.”

  “Bullshit. You get all that from a ticket stub?”

  “It’s an interesting coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Why would the Long Fong Boyz go after this Walling guy? It doesn’t add up.”

  Cruz narrowed his eyes. “We never mentioned the Long Fong Boyz specifically.”

  “Don’t try that shit on me.” Frank was getting hot. Distantly he warned himself to calm down. “You said Joey Huang, Crossgate Gardens. I know the streets. That neighborhood’s run by Chiu’s bunch.”

  “We hear another member of that crew has gone missing,” Cruz said. “Some tweaker named Tommy Chang.”

  “You fingering Alec for that one, too?”

  Murphy shook his head. “Not yet. But we need to talk to him, Frank. Right now he’s in the wind.”

  “With all this crazy weather, half the population of Jersey’s in the wind. Alec’ll turn up, and he’ll straighten all this out.”

  “Unless he’s dead,” Cruz said. “Maybe Chiu’s gang got him.”

  Fucking wetback said it with a smile. His first smile since Frank had walked in. Goddamn bastard. Frank would’ve liked to punch his lights out.

  “You’re blowing smoke,” he said, fighting to hold his voice steady. “It’s all supposition, based on nothing. And you’re really wasting my fucking time now, so we’re done. We’re fucking done.”

  “For now,” Murphy said, a little less affably than before.

  The two detectives rose from the sofa. Frank got up too. Halfway to the front door, Murphy made a show of remembering something, then turned back. The old Columbo routine.

  “Say, Frank—you gone grocery shopping lately?”

  This caught him up short, but he tried not to show it. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Cruz stepped up, too close, getting in his face. “Funny thing happened yesterday at an A&P not far from here. A citizen got a knife shoved into him.”

  “That so?”

  “We thought you might’ve heard.”

  “If it ain’t on ESPN, I don’t know about it.”

  “Sure, because you don’t watch the news.” Cruz said it with just enough politeness to convey deep sarcasm.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Frank drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. “So what’s the big deal? It’s the last days of fucking Rome out there. A lot of random shit going down all over.”

  “Yeah,” Murphy said. “Random. But the way that knife went in—pushed down vertically between the vic’s neck and shoulder, deep enough to puncture an artery …”

  “It’s damn similar to how Leo Rambaldi died,” Cruz finished. “Remember Leo?”

  “Never met the man.”

  Cruz watched him closely. “You were a suspect.”

  “I’m always a suspect. You lazy assholes try to pin every goddamn thing on me, but you can never make it stick.”

  “Yeah, I guess we’ve just got it in for you, don’t we, Frank?”

  It was the guy’s tone that got to him. That condescending, smirking tone. From a goddamn bean-picker, for Christ’s sake.

  “So,” Cruz went on, “if we show your picture to people who work at the A&P, none of them would remember seeing you yesterday?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “You definitely weren’t there?”

  “I’m never anywhere.”

  “Right. I keep forgetting that. You know, for a man who just found out his nephew’s on the run or maybe dead, you don’t seem too broken up.”

  “I’m crying inside.”

  “Sure you are, Frank.”

  Frank took a step closer. “I never gave you permission to call me Frank. I’m Mr. fucking Lazzaro to you.”

  “Okay, Mr. fucking Lazzaro.”

  Cruz didn’t laugh, but his eyes did. Frank felt rage beating in his skull, clawing at his insides, struggling to get out.

  “Are you looking for trouble,” he breathed, “you border-hopping piece of shit?”

  “Okay, now—” Murphy began, but Frank wasn’t listening.

  “Tell you what, muchacho,” Frank said. “Maybe you should worry less about me and more about your poor old mamasita. Last I heard, she was pole-dancing for pesos at a Mexicali strip joint, and sucking off a donkey in the late show. Comprende?”

  Cruz’s eyes weren’t laughing anymore. They were hard and flat as nail heads.”Yeah, I comprende, Mr. Fucking Lazzaro. I comprende real good.”

  “Glad to hear it, chico. Now haul your punk ass outta here before I get your fucking green card revoked and you end up back to Mexico picking fruit the way nature intended.”

  Cruz gave him a long stare and turned away without a word. Murphy followed him into the drizzle, turning briefly to say, “Thank your wife for the coffee.”

  Frank slammed the door.

  He wished he’d smashed Cruz in the face. No, he didn’t. He would’ve been arrested for that. Would’ve faced serious time. Assaulting a police officer. That would’ve been stupid. Would’ve been crazy. And yet …

  It would almost have been worth it. To sock that self-righteous son of a bitch unconscious—to feel the satisfying crunch of his fist against the bastard’s face—to hear the hard crack of bone—

  Frank lashed out with both hands and swept a flowerpot off a table. It crashed on the slate floor of the foyer in a spray of porcelain shards and water and geraniums.

  Fuck Cruz. God damn it, he ought to go after those two suits right now. Drag the spic out of his shitty department-issue Taurus and beat him to death on the fucking sidewalk.

  “Motherfucker,” Frank said, speech coming hard because he was suddenly short of breath. “Motherfucker. Motherfucker!”

  Upstairs, the twins, who’d been quiet for a while, started crying again.

  CHAPTER 33

  Bonnie’s duplex was no messier than it had been last night, after the Long Fong Boyz ransacked the place. She locked and bolted the door, not that it would prove much of a deterrent if they came back. But she didn’t think they would—not this soon. The attack in the parking lot had obviously been improvised. Now that it had failed, she would expect them to wait until dark. Predators were nocturnal. She ought to know.

  She spent some time on the phone with Victoria Lazzaro, working out a few details. After that, she switched on a tablet with a cellular connection and used Google Earth to perform a thorough aerial reconnaissance of Frank’s property in Saddle River. Then she searched the web for any local hardware store that was still open. She found one in McKendree Park and made a mental note to stop there on her way north.

  Her plan for tonight was simple. First she would take care of Frank Lazzaro at home. The Long Fong Boyz would be monitoring her movements, but the GPS tracker wouldn’t be accurate enough to pinpoint the Jeep if she hid it in the woods behind Frank’s place. And they probably wouldn’t come after her in Frank’s neighborhood, anyway. They would wait for a better opportunity.

  She intended to give them one. After leaving Frank’s house, she would lead Chiu’s gang into an ambush. With the Jeep parked in some deserted location, she would wait for their arrival, then open up with the TEC-9. With any luck she could blip t
hem all in one three-second burst.

  Sparky’s camcorder would come in handy after that—if she made it that far.

  She had two advantages over the gang. Number one, she knew about the GPS and they didn’t know she knew. Number two, she had a machine gun. They didn’t know about that, either.

  Even so, the odds weren’t exactly on her side. But hell, when were they ever?

  Someone knocked on her door. The noise startled her. She thought maybe she’d been wrong about Chiu’s posse waiting till nightfall. No, that couldn’t be it. The Long Fong Boyz wouldn’t knock.

  The face in the peephole belonged to Bradley Walsh. Bonnie opened the door and saw his squad car parked at the curb a few doors down. Apparently he didn’t want to advertise his visit to her house.

  “Hey, Bonnie. Saw your Jeep parked outside.”

  “Just passing by?”

  “I’ve been swinging past pretty regularly. You know, just to keep an eye on the place.”

  “Thanks. You wanna come in?”

  “Just for a sec.”

  He entered the living room and stood there shifting his feet like a man walking in place.

  “I’ve gotta thank you again,” she said. “For what you did. It was super helpful.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He looked down at his shoes. “Bonnie … I read the file.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. While I was running off the copy last night.”

  “Then you know what Maguire suspects me of.”

  “I know. And if you did it—not that I want to know, one way or the other—but if you did, I wouldn’t blame you.”

  “That’s kind of a strange attitude for a law enforcement officer to take.”

  “Maybe I’m not a very good law enforcement officer.”

  “Or maybe you’re wise beyond your years.”

  He smiled at that. A bashful smile. But his face turned serious when he said, “I overheard the chief on the phone a couple hours ago. He’s talked the state police in Ohio into deposing the gun shop owner.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, it sounds like.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the heads-up. You don’t have to keep sticking your neck out for me.”

  “Maybe I like it.”

  “Yeah, it’s all fun and games until somebody gets hurt.”

  “You’re the one I’m worried about getting hurt.”

  “I can take care of myself, Bradley.”

  “Brad.”

  “Huh?”

  “Only my mom calls me Bradley.”

  “Right. Okay, Brad. I appreciate your help, but I’ll take it from here.”

  “You going to get a lawyer?”

  “I may not need one.”

  “I don’t know. Once the gun guy talks …”

  “Maybe he won’t.”

  “He talked to the chief.”

  “That wasn’t official. Maguire has no jurisdiction in Ohio.”

  “Tomorrow it’ll be official.”

  “Tomorrow is still a long way off. And Maguire’s had some real bad luck dealing with me. It could be he’s about to have some more.”

  “You’re a cool customer, Bonnie Parker.”

  “In these veins—ice water.”

  “I believe it. Hey, I don’t know if I should say this. I mean, I don’t exactly know what your situation is.”

  “My situation?”

  “Desmond Harris. You know.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe I’m out of line, but—well, I guess you know I’m interested.”

  “I might’ve picked up on that.”

  “Yeah. So if your deal with Harris isn’t too serious, or if anything changes—”

  “Sorry, Brad. It’s not gonna happen.”

  “Because of Harris?”

  He was offering her a way out, but she wouldn’t take it. “Because of me,” she said firmly. “You don’t want to get involved with me. I’m not a good person.”

  “I think you are.”

  “You don’t know me the way I do. Maguire is probably right. I probably should be locked up. I do bad things, and I don’t even feel bad about it. I … hurt people. I hurt them in all kinds of ways. I would hurt you too, if you ever gave me the chance.”

  “You can’t talk me out of the way I feel.”

  “That’s your hard luck.”

  She liked him. She was grateful to him. But she would never hook up with him. For once in her life she would be kind. And though he didn’t know it, the greatest kindness she could show him was to keep him at the distance.

  It wouldn’t be hard. She kept everyone at a distance. Everyone except Des.

  “I’m not giving up on you,” Bradley said.

  “You should. Because it’s never gonna happen, kiddo. You can take that to the bank.”

  He flashed that smile again. “We’ll see.”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done. Even if it was a little crazy of you to take this kind of chance.”

  “I like to go a little crazy every once in a while. See you, Bonnie.” He tipped his cap to her as he walked out the door.

  She watched him go. Then she shut the door, relocked it and re-bolted it, and released a long-held breath. Nobility didn’t come easy to her. It kind of cut against the grain of her basic asshole-ishness.

  She could have led him on, kept him on the line. He meant well, he was willing to overlook a whole lot of things about her, and—okay—he was young and studly and fuckable. But none of that mattered. Let him find some normal girl to romance. Someone whose life wasn’t a hedge maze strewn with land mines. Someone who didn’t kill people for money—and get people killed, people like Aaron Walling.

  No one was safe around her. Not her enemies, not her friends. It had been that way since the farmhouse. It would always be that way.

  The farmhouse. She’d been so young then, a kid. Young enough to believe she was ending something. Young enough to believe she could kill three people and just walk away and go back to her life.

  - — -

  It happened in the winter. She remembered snow on tree branches. Early dusk. She’d arrived in Buckington and holed up in an abandoned barn. She’d learned to find such places. This one was inhabited by squirrels and spiders. She stole food from a neighborhood market, stuffing loose items into her pockets as she warily watched the counterman. In the barn on the evening before the killing, she gulped candy bars, chewing hard, sucking down sugary energy to power her resolve.

  She was scared. She had never killed anyone. Had never pointed a gun at anyone until the gun shop owner followed her into the parking lot. She was only fourteen, and she’d lived on the street, fending for herself, since her parents had been murdered in the motel. She’d learned to steal and hide. Twice she’d sold her body for cash. She’d given a nervous guy a blow job in a toilet, and allowed another guy to put his dick between her legs. Afterward she’d worried about herpes, AIDS, getting pregnant. She hadn’t done it again.

  She’d met other kids, runaways, but never bonded with them. They were into booze and drugs; they just drifted, with no purpose. She had a purpose. She would find the ones who killed her parents.

  Why? She couldn’t say that she’d loved her parents or that they’d loved her. It wasn’t about vengeance, much less justice. It was because—because the men in the motel had scared her. She couldn’t shake free of the memory of huddling in a bathtub behind a shower curtain, terrified of discovery. They had reduced her to helplessness and fear, and she couldn’t forgive them for that. And the only way to lose the fear was to face them and put them down.

  They were older than she was, nearly as old as her dad had been. They were experienced at killing. She could tell that much from their casual brutality in the motel room. And she knew they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if they caught her in the house. But first they would rape her. A gang rape, ritual humiliation. Running a train on her—that was what it was called. She wouldn’t let it happen. If things wen
t that way, she would use the gun on herself.

  But she didn’t intend to die that night. She intended to make the three of them dead. It would be dangerous and rough, but she’d been steeling her nerves for six months, and she was ready.

  The farmhouse ranged lazily on a spread of fallow land hemmed in by yards of chicken wire strung between stubby, paint-flecked posts. She had no trouble crawling under the wire and onto the property. Lights in the windows were on, and from inside came the babble of the TV and drunken laughter. She hoped they really were drunk or high. Anything that slowed their reactions would give her an edge.

  A quarter moon played tag with scudding clouds. She waited for an interval of darkness, when the moon was hidden. In that temporary blackout, she darted across the field to the back door, where she crouched, hugging the wall, expelling feathery clouds of breath. Her heart was beating fast and hard, fairly knocking at her ears, and she was cold and lonely. Part of her wanted to turn back. But it was only a small part, easily ignored.

  She tested the door. Locked. She had neither the tools nor the skills to pick a lock. But the nearest window, though shut against the cold, was unlatched, or maybe the ancient latch was broken. Whatever the explanation, she shoved it up, straining with both hands, worried by the low squeal of protest as the sash grated against the frame.

  When it was up, she waited, afraid someone had heard and would come. But no one came, so she gathered her strength and climbed through, alighting on a threadbare carpet in a storage room.

  What happened after that seemed to take forever, yet it was all over in less than a minute. A single minute, hardly any time at all, but long enough to end three lives.

  She emerged from the storeroom just as one of the three ambled out of the kitchen, a beer bottle in his hand. He was making conversation with his friends in the other room, shouting something about how they had to make a beer run tomorrow because their stash was running low. She was grateful to him for speaking, because she recognized his voice. He was one of the three who had been at the motel—not Lucas Hatch, the triggerman identified by the police, but one of his friends. Her last doubt was erased, and it was actually easy for her to point the gun and shoot.