Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1)

by Dallas Gorham

  “Yes, ma’am. Do you know him?”

  She handed the photo back. “I seen him around. He call on Darshonnay from time to time. I never knew his name.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been helpful.”

  “Good day to you, and God bless you.” She plodded down the steps, clutching her shopping bag.

  ###

  I presumed from the name “Darshonnay” and the makeup of the neighborhood that Perkins was black. Having an armed, white man wake her in her bedroom was not a good way to begin an interview. So I considered going in, announcing myself in a loud voice, and hoping she woke up before I got to her bedroom. On the other hand, if Hopper were there, he could be armed. Not a good idea to announce my presence and give him time to prepare an ambush. And I didn’t want to endanger Perkins. But if she were alone and passed out, I’d have to wake her anyway...Oh, well, nothing ventured...

  I eased the door open and drew my pistol as I entered the darkened living room. The humidity made the room feel dankly oppressive. I checked the kitchen. Roaches feasted on empty carry-out boxes on the counter beside an almost empty bottle of rum. Beer bottles and pizza cartons overflowed a trash can in the corner. The place smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time—maybe never.

  I crept up the stairs, stepping on the side edges of the steps. Less likelihood of a squeaky tread. I heard snoring from above. The air conditioner got louder. So did the snoring. A feeble current of cool air flowed down the stairs. I glanced in the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Clear.

  The bedroom doors were both open. I checked the front bedroom first. It was dark and empty. I could feel the sweat running down my ribs under my shirt. I stepped into the other bedroom. I stood to the right of the doorway and let my eyes adjust to the dim light that leaked around the drawn window shades. The right-hand window held the air-conditioner. It fought a losing battle against the oppressive summer heat.

  I smelled the scents of unwashed bodies and marijuana smoke. Hopper snored loudly on his back, nude. His right forearm lay across his forehead; his left arm draped across a nude woman I assumed was Darshonnay Perkins.

  Even in the dim light, I saw needle tracks on her arms. Howie’s arms and legs were easier to see because he was white. No obvious needle marks. Maybe he’d cleaned up his act. Or he was afraid of the random drug tests they give parolees. I collected his clothes and threw them onto the stair landing. Nothing makes a man feel more vulnerable than to be naked when everyone else is clothed.

  I stuck the Glock under Hopper’s chin. “Wake up, asshole. And don’t blink, because you’re almost dead.”

  He tried to sit up. I pressed the gun barrel into his throat. He gagged and opened his eyes wide enough to show white all around the iris. Perkins didn’t stir.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Howie. Who hired you to torch the house in Cleveland last September?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Wrong answer, asshole.” I jabbed the pistol into his solar plexus. I stepped back when he rolled to the edge of the bed and puked.

  “That’s strike one, Howie. Do this easy, or do it hard. It’s up to you.”

  Perkins mumbled and rubbed her eyes.

  Hopper sat on the edge of the bed, placing his feet to avoid the puddle of vomit on the floor. He mumbled something. I slapped his head above the ear. “Speak up, asshole. Who hired you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shouted.

  That got Perkins’s attention, and she swung her legs over the other side of the bed and sat up. She looked at me over her shoulder. Her head wobbled. She was still stoned. “You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “What’chu want wit’ us?”

  “I don’t want anything with you. Get dressed and go somewhere else while Howie and I talk. Okay?”

  She sat motionless for a few seconds, then stood up. “Gotta pee.” She stumbled out.

  I turned back to Hopper. “Who hired you to torch the house in Cleveland?”

  “I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I hit him across the cheek with the side of the gun barrel. A long, red streak oozed blood. I didn’t hit him with the gunsight. That would cut him. I wanted to hurt him, not send him to the hospital. “That’s strike two. You want to find out what happens on strike three?”

  He held up his hands. “Okay. It was Lenny Lucas.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “My public defender eleven years ago when I went to prison. He’s got his own law firm now.”

  And that’s not all he told me.

  I glanced at my watch. Not even noon yet.

  Chapter 40

  Leonard J. Lucas, JD, the sign announced. The door was locked. No answer when I knocked. Maybe things were slow today so Lucas took off early. Or maybe he never came in today.

  I glanced at my watch. A few minutes after two. I went back to the lobby and searched the building directory for the manager. I called the emergency number and schmoozed Lenny’s address from the management company.

  ###

  Lucas’s apartment was one step up from the one Howie the Hophead shared with Darshonnay. A small step. A dirty, rusty sedan occupied his assigned parking spot. I knocked and stood where Lucas could see through the peep hole that I wore a suit and tie. The distorted view from the fisheye lens wouldn’t let him see the bulge from my pistol.

  The deadbolt rattled and the door opened a crack. Part of an unshaven face showed above the chain. “Whatta ya want?”

  “Hello, Lenny. Long time, no see.” The afternoon sun behind me hid my face in the shadow of the porch roof.

  “Do I know you?”

  That was confirmation enough. I rammed the door, pulling the chain from the jamb and flinging it open. I knocked Lucas on his keister with my shoulder. I closed the door and threw the dead bolt. I grabbed his shirt front, lifted him off his butt, and threw him against the wall. I rammed my forearm across his neck, choking him. “Lenny, are we gonna do this easy or hard?”

  “Who are you? Let me see your search warrant. You got no right…” I hit him in the stomach. He tried to collapse but my forearm pinned him against the wall.

  “I’m not a cop. Capisce?” I figured Lenny would be more impressed with an Italian-American hood. I pushed harder with my forearm. He struggled. “Capisce?” I repeated.

  He spit in my face and tried to knee me in the balls.

  I turned my hip against his knee and hit him in the solar plexus with my free hand. “I guess we do it hard.” I head butted him. “Do I have your attention now, Lucas? I guarantee that you’ll tell me what I want. If you make it sooner rather than later, it’ll be easier for both of us, but mostly for you.” I slammed him into the wall again. This time his head broke the drywall. “I can do this all day.”

  When he felt the drywall break, his expression changed. I head-butted him again to let him know I was serious.

  “Are you having fun yet, Lenny?”

  He tried to nod. “Okay, okay. You broke my fucking nose.”

  I threw him onto a sofa in the shabby living room. “That’s not all I’ll break.” I kicked the coffee table out of the way, breaking one of its legs. I tore the leg the rest of the way off and waved it in front of him. “Why did you hire Howie the Hophead to torch that house in Cleveland last September?”

  His eyes darted around the room. I swung the table leg against the fleshy part of his left forearm where it wouldn’t break a bone. He groaned and grabbed his forearm with his other hand. I grabbed his shirt with my left hand and got in his face. “Don’t even think about lying to me.”

  He reached inside my jacket for the Glock.

  I dropped the table leg, twisted his wrist out and back with my hand. I grabbed his shirt again, and pulled him over to a prone position on the sofa. I put a knee in his stomach and leaned. I was calm and matter-of-fact. “Lenny, if I lean harder, your diaphr
agm won’t expand. Your lungs can’t fill with air. You’ll feel like you’re drowning. It’s waterboarding without the water. Capisce?”

  He gasped and his face turned red. “Nod your head if you understand.”

  He nodded.

  “You ready to play nice? Nod your head.”

  He did.

  I pulled over a straight chair from the dinette. I turned it around and straddled it, rested my forearms on the chair back. “Let’s talk.”

  And we did. Or rather, he did...a lot.

  Then I called Flamer with a rush project.

  Chapter 41

  I knocked on Bettina’s door at 7:10. She had said sevenish. Ten minutes felt about ish.

  She opened the door and grinned. Her teeth looked very white against her tan skin.

  I handed her the bouquet I had bought at a supermarket. “It’s been awhile.”

  “Way too long,” she answered as she took the flowers in her left hand. She laughed and put her right hand behind my neck, pulling my head down for a kiss on the mouth. The kiss was too slow to be just friendly. “They’re lovely.” She stepped back and opened the door wide. “Come in the kitchen while I put these in water.” She led the way. A light fragrance followed. Was it the flowers? Maybe not.

  She pointed to a bar stool. “Sit. We can talk while I cook. What would you like to drink?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “That would be Pinot Grigio.”

  “One of my favorites.”

  She poured me a glass. “How’s your case going?” She took out a ceramic vase shaped like a tall wicker basket.

  “Pretty good. I had a beer with Sergeant Gonzales last night—he goes by Gonzo, by the way. He told me where my arsonist lives—his name is Howie the Hophead—and Howie was even home.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Howie was sleeping off a drunk or a high or something. We had a fruitful interview. That led me to the guy who hired him, a defense attorney named Lenny Lucas.”

  Bettina filled the vase with water and cut the ends off the stems with kitchen scissors. “And this arsonist admitted guilt just like that. And then he told you who hired him, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.” I grinned. “I can be very persuasive. It’s one of the advantages of not being a cop anymore.”

  She grabbed my hand and examined my knuckles. “You don’t look any the worse for wear.”

  “Can’t say the same for Howie. Anyway, I found Lucas without much trouble.”

  Bettina smirked. “You get lucky a lot.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. “Lucas told me who hired him. The guy’s also an attorney, but a more reputable one, named Franklin Turbot. Turbot hired Lucas to kill the half-sisters, and he didn’t care how.”

  “And Lucas gave you the guy’s name? Just like that?”

  “I said ‘pretty please.’”

  “Of course you did.”

  “I haven’t talked to Turbot yet, but he’ll lead me to the next link in the chain.”

  “Are you going to ‘interview’ him like you did Lucas?”

  “Can’t. According to Lucas, he’s a partner with a big law firm downtown. I can’t barge into his office and rough him up. I’ve got to be subtle with Turbot.”

  Bettina centered the flowers on the counter and admired them a moment. “How can I help?”

  “What do you know about Franklin Turbot?”

  She frowned while she chopped lettuce. “The name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “What about Lorraine Wallace? Do you know her?”

  Bettina added the bacon crumbles to the mixing bowl. “Nope. Who’s Lorraine Wallace?”

  “My client’s wife. Say, what’re you making?”

  “Cobb salad. I hope you like it.”

  “I never met a meal I didn’t like.”

  “Any other names for me?”

  “Ike Simonetti?”

  “That name’s familiar. Isn’t he a local oil man?”

  “Not anymore. He moved to Port City a few years ago.”

  “What’s his connection to the case?”

  “He’s the client.”

  “Okay. Any other names?”

  “Compostela?”

  “That name I recognize—local crime family.” She scraped the chopped olives into the mixing dish. “Are you involved with the Compostelas?” She grated the cheddar over the bowl.

  “I sure as hell hope not. I’d hate to have a mob family after me. But Gonzo told me last night that Wallace’s sister Virginia, who lives in Houston, is married to one of Albert Compostela’s sons.”

  “So your client’s wife’s sister’s husband is a mobster’s son?”

  “Sounds a little far-fetched when you say it like that.”

  “Does it sound better if I say ‘the sister of the wife of your client is married to the son of a mobster.’”

  “Doesn’t sound very incriminating, does it?”

  I told her about the case while she finished the salad. “Everything connects in Houston. The client and his wife are from Houston. The arsonist lives in Houston. He was hired by Lenny Lucas in Houston. Lucas was engaged by Franklin Turbot, a Houston attorney. And two of the three guys who tried to kill me are from Houston.”

  Bettina stopped with her knife in the air. “Someone tried to kill you?”

  “Don’t worry. They failed.” I grinned. “Charlie ‘Bones’ Bonano and Hector ‘Scrambles’ Scarpetta, two soldiers from a Houston mob family, tried to put a hit on me.”

  Bettina made a fist and bopped me on the shoulder. “You should tell me these things, hero. You said there were three guys. Were they from the Compostelas?”

  “No. The two Houston thugs were from the Santorinis. The third guy was from New Jersey, transplanted to Port City.” So I told her about the attempts to kill me.

  “Geez, Chuck. You remind me of the old Chinese curse ‘May you live in interesting times.’ You were lucky again.”

  She picked up the mixing bowl. “Bring those, big fellow?” I grabbed two salad bowls and followed her to the dining table.

  Bettina handed me another bottle of Pinot Grigio. “Open that for me?”

  I started with the corkscrew and she continued. “So Turbot is the top link of the chain. Is there a connection between Turbot and your client or his wife?”

  “I’m working on it. I hoped you’d know something.”

  “I have local knowledge, but Houston is a big city. Lawyers at big firms specialize in just one or two types of law, like real estate or wills or mergers. What kind of lawyer is Turbot? That could give you a clue.”

  “I don’t know yet; I only got his name this afternoon.”

  “After dinner, we’ll try the firm’s website. It should tell you his specialty. You can use my wireless network.”

  “Thanks.”

  I poured the wine and handed a glass to Bettina.

  Her fingers slid across the back of my hand. She raised her glass and held my gaze. “What shall we drink to?”

  “To a lovely lady with sky-blue eyes who likes to slow dance,” I answered and clinked her glass.

  “And I’ll drink to an old classmate who is lucky.” She sipped her Pinot Grigio and took a bite of salad. “You know, Chuck, I’ve always meant to ask you—why didn’t you play football in college?”

  “Too slow for college football.”

  “You scored plenty of touchdowns for the Rough Riders.”

  “We were a small school, only 750 students. And we had Bob Martinez as quarterback. Bob made up in skill what I lacked in speed.”

  “I remember Bob. He was at the reunion.”

  I decided not to tell her that I’d seen Bob in Cleveland. Too long a story. “Bob made me look way better than I was.”

  “Maybe so, but I almost swooned when you walked past me in the hall. You were so into Liz Johannes that you never noticed me.”

  “Yeah, Liz and I were a hot item.”

  “What happened between you two?”


  I shrugged. “I was in love; she was in lust.”

  “In lust?”

  “Yeah. From the first time she asked me out, she used me for sex, fun, and parties.”

  “Most high school boys would like that fine.”

  “Oh, I liked it a lot, but I wanted something more. I still do. Liz wasn’t serious about me. So I joined the Army.”

  “Does it hurt to talk about it?”

  “Not anymore. Dad told me his heart was broken three times before he found Mom. That put things in perspective.”

  Bettina took a bite of salad, waved her fork while she chewed and swallowed. “You didn’t bring a date to the reunion.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “You spent so much time talking football with Bob Martinez that you didn’t even notice me.”

  I noticed. I just couldn’t do anything about it.

  “I was really glad that you asked me to dance, Bettina.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’ve always had a crush on you. I still do.”

  I just sat there, speechless. Finally, “What am I supposed to do now?”

  She laughed. “Right now, nothing. Finish your salad, and we’ll see how the evening progresses. I didn’t get your attention in high school, but I’ve got it now.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “At least for tonight.”

  I clinked glasses. “For tonight.”

  “And,” she added, “You were lucky earlier today. And like I said, you may get lucky again.”

  And I did.

  Chapter 42

  Franklin Turbot lived in the heart of River Oaks, a Houston neighborhood whose average income was somewhere north of Wow! even for Texas.

  Since it was 8:30 Saturday morning, I tried his home. His wife said he was at the office. I thanked her and drove downtown.

  The law firm occupied three floors of the tallest building in Houston.

  “Burton Pendlebury to see Franklin Turbot.” I said as I handed the receptionist the fake business card Bettina and I had printed the previous night.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pendlebury. I’ll see if Mr. Turbot is available.” She punched her switchboard and glanced at the card.