“Where the hell did those come from?”
He turned to face me. “They were under my seat. We are cops, we have tools.”
I was positive that I had better tools than they did, but it was a great topic to bring up at the moment.
A minute passed, and frustration was building inside me. “Damn it! Should we move to get a better angle?” I asked. “We can’t see shit here.”
“No, there isn’t a good spot on this street. At least here they can’t see us,” Mitch said.
Henry agreed.
Playing the waiting game sucked. I wanted to go inside that house. “Should we go talk to them?”
He looked into the rearview mirror. “Nah, I say we wait.”
Henry agreed.
Pushing back into my seat, I folded my arms. “Come on, we can ask this BM guy what he knows about human trafficking and if he’s a child-murdering pedophile.”
“I don’t know. Seems a little flimsy,” Mitch said.
I didn’t respond because he was right. Maybe, subconsciously, I only wanted to move away from the stink of the backseat.
The Yellow Cab was pulling away from the house, so I pulled out my phone, touching the screen, sliding my finger as if cleaning it. I held the phone up as I spotted the cab pull out of the driveway, and instead of going in the direction it came, it turned in our direction. I took a picture capturing the license-plate and driver.
The cab zoomed past us. The driver, a middle-aged black man, and the cab’s license plate number, both showed up clearly in the picture.
Henry wrote something down in his notepad. “I wrote the plate number down, we may need to track down where he picked that man up.”
Mitch turned to look at BM’s house. “Yeah, good idea.”
“I took a picture of the cab and got the plate and driver, I’ll send it to you.”
“Thanks.”
My attention wandered to the yard. The garden was immaculate. Although I owned a small flower shop, and knew something about them, I didn’t recognize these flowers. But they had to be annuals. Then I reckoned the gardeners would be a good source of information about BM. They wouldn’t know a lot, but could give me an impression of BM, and let me know if they had seen a Hispanic girl inside.
“That’s a really nice garden.”
The inspectors didn’t reply.
If this sit-and-wait approach didn’t pan out I would have to come back and talk to them. Or I could skip all that bullshit and just break into BM’s house and snoop around.
If that girl lived in the house, there would be evidence. A shirt, a sock, or a toy had to be somewhere in the house.
Forty minutes later, a vehicle approached. We all sat up straight in our seats when it turned into BM’s driveway. It was a pretty car. A navy-blue BMW with shiny rims, and tinted windows.
Mitch adjusted himself in the seat. “Good things come to those who wait.”
We studied the blue BMW as it pulled up to BM’s house.
It parked in front of the house, on the street. The driver, Hispanic male, got out and closed the door. He was average height and weight, dark brown skin, hair slicked back, wore a dark suit, and sunglasses.
Mitch’s face pushed up against the windshield. “Who the hell is that?”
I moved closer, and squinted my eyes. “I don’t know.”
“He looks Mexican.”
Henry nodded. “Yeah, he’s a beaner.”
Then something happened that literally made us all gasp. Even me, and I don’t gasp.
Mitch stared out the window. “What the fuck?”
Henry stared at me. We understood what was going on.
Chapter Forty-Five
Feeling The Sweet Burn
Uncle Christopher, his mother’s brother, began having sex with him after he and his mother moved in.
Norman never knew his father. He disappeared one day after dinner while his mother was still pregnant with him.
At first, Norman didn’t like Uncle Christopher, but grew to love him, but he always worked hard to please his uncle. The cigar in his hand reminded him of his first cigar with his Uncle Christopher at fourteen. He remembered hating them, and didn’t understand why men smoked them, yet now he enjoyed a good cigar. Although it was early, he sipped an old Cognac, looking over at the spires of cigar smoke, rising towards the ceiling, like spirits trying to reach Heaven. The liquor warmed him nicely and the chair’s soft leather felt good, hugging him like a young lover.
Bradley grabbed his cigar, and put it between his ultra-white teeth. “How much is this going to cost me, Norman?”
They hit it off instantly, after meeting Bradley at a child-lovers meeting years ago. Meetings like that happened far more back then. Today, the internet was useful.
Without asking him, Bradley told Norman the family’s wealth came from old money. He never knew what that meant. But, through a mutual friend, Norman discovered Bradley’s grandfather was a successful used car dealer. It didn’t matter where the money came from, because the last time he checked, Bradley’s money spent like everyone else’s.
“Ah come on Bradley, isn’t it too early to talk about money, right now?”
Bradley looked out the window, showing little emotion. Smug.
“Let’s enjoy our drink, smoke, and enjoy each other’s company, my friend.”
Bradley turned towards Norman, nodding. He held out his cigar like a rare gem. “Do you know these babies are Cuban?”
“Those island communists really know how to make cigars.”
“They also produce beautiful children,” Bradley said, giving him a half smile.
“Yes, they do. It’s been awhile since I’ve been to Cuba, maybe we can go for a visit soon?”
Bradley’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Norman exhaled, smoke moving away from his lips, twirling, and rising, eventually becoming part of the small cloud resting under the ceiling.
“How long we been friends? Twenty years?”
“No, closer to twenty-five years now.” White smoke escaped slowly through his thin lips.
“Damn we’re getting old, my friend.” Norman took another sip of the fine Cognac.
His eyebrow rose half an inch. “You might be getting old, but I’m getting better. I age like a fine wine.”
Both chuckled.
The inside of his jacket vibrated. He reached in, and pulled out a cell phone and noted who was calling him. “Excuse me, Bradley, I need to answer this, it’s important.”
“Sure, please.”
Norman placed his drink down and stood. Walking over to a corner, next to a beautiful bookshelf, he raised the burner to his ear. “Yes?”
“Hey, Blanco, it’s me.”
He recognized the voice, and took another puff. “Where are you?”
“We are close, very close, my friend. How are things there?”
“Everything here is good. We are waiting on you.” He turned, happy about the idea of making money and perhaps going to Cuba to have a taste of the local cuisine.
“I’m a few minutes away.”
“Good job.” Norman nodded even though the man on the phone couldn’t see.
“Anything else?”
Norman sucked in more smoke. “I came here in a taxi, I’ll need a ride when we leave. Would that be okay?”
“Of course! That’s not a problem, Blanco, see you in a few minutes.”
The call ended. Norman pocketed the burner and walked over to his friend, and grabbed his Cognac. When he left Bradley’s he would break it, and throw the burner in the street.
Bradley turned his head. “Good news, I hope.”
He took a drink, feeling the sweet burn down his throat. “My man isn’t far from here. Be here soon.”
“Good.”
Each man raised his drink, taking another sip of Cognac.
Bradley took a deep breath, let it out. “Your man’s on his way and I’d like to know the price before he arrives.”
“Come on, old friend, this can wait.” He knew if Bradley had the merchandise in front of him, Norman could charge more.
“Norman, I …” he said. before Norman held up a hand.
“Bradley, I’m thinking fifty.”
Bradley Miller frowned. “Last time it was forty, why the increase?”
“My guy charged me more. He says it’s getting harder to obtain merchandise.”
Bradley sat pensive for a minute. “I’ll have it to you within a day or two. Would that be a problem?”
Norman looked at his beverage. “That’s not a problem, my dear friend.” He knew his friend was good for it.
The doorbell chimed a few minutes later. The men looked at each other, and smiled,placing their cigars in their respective ashtrays.
Bradley stood, straightening his jacket. Norman did the same. Then both walked from the study down the hallway. Bradley stopped a few feet from the front door. Norman took that as meaning he was expected to open the door.
He peeked through the peephole, then grabbed the doorknob. “It’s him.” Opening the door, he raised his hands as if he were being saved from sin. “Ah, Javier! Welcome,, amigo, come on in.”
Javier entered, and hugged Norman like a brother who had been away for some time. “Ah Mr. White, how are you doing?”
Chapter Forty-Six
In A Pretty Yellow Dress
Bradley’s smile stretched across his face.
His mouth opened slightly as the door opened and the young, caramel colored girl, dressed in a pretty, yellow dress, with long, black hair appeared. He gazed upon his new little angel.
The newcomer and the girl walked into the house, and Norman closed the door.
Bradley moved in closer. He was about ten feet from her, knelt, and looked into her eyes.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The girl didn’t respond.
Javier glanced down at the girl and said something in Spanish.
“Bernice,” she said in three syllables. Ber-nee-se.
His eyes glowed. “How are you?”
She cowered; her eyes gazing around the foyer.
“I don’t think she speaks English, sir,” Javier said.
He nodded. “Thank you for bringing her. How do you say her name, again?”
“Her name is Bernice,” Javier said in two syllables. Ber-niece.
“Hi Bernice,” he said. Kneeling again, he smiled, sticking his hand out.
Bernice was cautious but accepted his hand and they shook.
“Hola,” Bernice said.
Bradley stood and kept the smile. “Yes, she will do, gentlemen. Nice job.”
All turned towards the door when the doorbell chimed again.
Norman moved towards the door, peering through the peephole. Turned back to Bradley. “You expecting company?”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Door’s Handle
My heartrate increased as I realized who the girl was.
These guys worked fast. Too fast.
Henry fidgeted in his seat. My mind raced through a sea of variables and options. I chided myself for being here with two cops, whose purpose was to bring in perps or suspects, alive. Not dead.
No way they would let me do what I wanted, but I still couldn’t let those pervs hurt that little girl.
The girl appeared to be nine or ten years old. She surveyed the house and garden, holding herself. She didn’t have a jacket.
The two moved towards the entrance to the house, down the driveway.
Mitch turned to face both of us. “What?”
“I believe that little girl,” Henry pointed towards the girl, “is here for BM. She’s Samantha’s replacement.”
Turning back towards the little girl, I had a bad feeling about what I was watching. BM had killed Samantha two nights ago and now he was getting another one.
Mitch asked. “You think Bowel Movement is getting another girl?”
“You think? That would be fast,” I said. “If he’s getting another girl, who is the white guy who got out of the cab earlier?”
They shrugged.
“And who’s this new guy?” Henry asked.
Mitch sighed heavily. “I’m not sure, could be a dad and a daughter visiting a friend.”
I almost laughed at those words. “What kind of father doesn’t give his little girl a jacket when its cold out?”
“Maybe, you’re right” Mitch mumbled.
“I don’t care if you want to go slow,” I pointed towards BM’s house, “that little girl needs some help.”
Neither Mitch nor Henry said anything for several seconds.
I couldn’t take the silence any longer. My fingers found the cold plastic of the door’s handle. “We should go knock, shake this pedophile tree and see how many children fall out!
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Grooves And Valleys
He parked two blocks down from Inspector Creed’s house, hopped the fence on the side of the house, and went to the back door. He picked the lock, and entered the house, no problem. There was a security system, one he was familiar with and could have bypassed, but the system hadn’t been set. Happened all the time when there were young kids at home. Parents forgot to set it when they and the kids were running late for school and work. However, parents rarely forgot to set them at night.
Nobody on the planet knew he walking around, in a cop’s house. He felt as if he might even steal something. He started in the kitchen.
The kitchen counter was big, nice. He moseyed over to the fridge. Art done, obviously, by a child or children. Lukas raised his arm, fingers extended, rubbing his index and middle fingers over the grooves and valleys, feeling the texture of crayon, closing his eyes, and seeing small hands creating this work of art.
It took him back to Stan’s childhood. Like a lot of boys, Stan not only wanted to be a professional baseball player, at one point he wanted to be a professional artist. He drew and painted the sun, barns, animals, cars, and flowers. Lukas thought his son had talent, but told his son that creating art wouldn’t pay the bills later in life.
Stan would never have his own family. He wouldn’t know what it felt like to have a son and play catch with him. Not know how it felt to have a beer with his son. All because of Rose.
Rose would never have the chance to know the joy of being a mother. He would make her feel his pain, but first he needed to understand the why.
After checking the contents of the fridge, helping himself to some lunch meat and a chunk of cheese, then washing it down with a Coke, Lukas went into the living room.
A huge, wrap-around dark gray sofa, sat nicely against the far wall. A huge, flat-screen TV hung on the opposite wall. He ran a finger on the screen and edge, looking behind it. The ultra slim kind. It was nice and very expensive. This one might be Rose’s inside guy at HPD.
He stepped away from the TV and headed towards a hallway. Flicking a light switch on the wall, framed photos came into view, stuck on the wall. He inspected them. In one of them, Henry Creed was dressed in a red and white University of Houston football uniform.
Next to the picture was one of his wife, younger, dressed in what he believed to be a soccer uniform, holding a soccer ball, hair held back in a ponytail, giving a supermodel smile, sporting a pair of killer muscular legs.
All were of the couple and their two children, a girl and boy. Basically, he was staring at a timeline of their lives.
A picture of the investigator, on a beach, probably Galveston, with him holding a baby. The words “Daddy’s Girl” were etched onto the picture frame in fancy pink letters.
One picture had the wife holding another baby in blue overalls with “Mom’s Little Man” in blue letters on the picture frame.
I gazed at other pictures of a boy about two years giggling with the investigator. Then Lukas came across more recent pictures. The daughter favored the mother.
The mother was attractive with light brown hair and blue eyes.
The father seemed strong and able.
Lukas finished looking at their family photos and went into the master bedroom. Of course, this couple had a king-sized bed. The frame was big, wooden, looked to be handmade. At the foot of the bed was a padded bench with a couple of pairs of house shoes underneath.
Cost a pretty penny, but he really liked the attached-to-the-frame night tables.
He turned his attention to the other side of the room, a big dresser of drawers, built by the same carpenter who made the bed frame in the master bedroom. He walked over and slid his fingertips across the side, smooth as a baby’s bottom. Great woodworking.
Lukas proceeded to go through the drawers. People hide a lot of things they don’t want other people knowing about, from friends, from spouses. Lukas looked through a drawer half-full of boxers and socks, not finding anything. The drawer next to it was hers. He took his time going through her panties. He even brought a few of them up to his nose, breathing in deeply, envying Creed. He put a pair of pink panties in his pocket and didn’t feel like a pervert.
He closed the drawer and found a box of jewelry. Mrs. Investigator had some nice jewelry, a few rings, couple of gold bracelets, and necklaces.
Didn’t take any of them.
They would, he knew, look good on her.
Lukas had recently given up on having a woman. His pecker didn’t work anymore. He needed the little blue pills to get it to stand up, but it seemed like a lot of work so he didn’t bother.
Nothing stood out in the bedroom so he entered the closet. Like the other investigator, suits hung from hangers, but this one had more. Nicer ones.
This guy had to be on the take.
The dossier on the investigator mentioned his wife was a nurse. So how does a nurse and Houston Police Investigator with two kids make enough for all of this stuff? He wondered if the wife was in on it too, but dismissed the idea. Women didn’t have the stomach for crookedness. If the husband was on the take, he wasn’t going to let his wife know.
Lukas peeked under the bed quickly and didn’t find anything.
Ungoverned: A Thriller and Suspense Novel (Ungoverned Series Book 1) Page 13