“You do hang out in all the finest places.” Marlowe grinned and shook their hands. “What brings you two out on this lovely evening?”
“Domestic abuse call from a Misty Carter. You?” asked Wayne.
“Someone saw Ms. Carter near a murder scene a couple of nights back. Seems Fozzy Washington got his throat cut. Misty may have been one of his girls, or just in the area at the time. She has a long sheet for solicitation and possession, so either is possible.” Marlowe eyed the trailer, lights on throughout the tin can home.
“You want to do the honors?” Wayne motioned toward the trailer.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Marlowe.
Larsen held back as a safeguard in case Misty bolted while Marlowe and Wayne approached the mobile home. Acorns from a large oak dropped and rolled down a tattered awning to collect in the wooden slats of a rotting porch. Soft crunches underfoot amplified off the aluminum siding, making Marlowe wince. Three stairs led onto the patio where a curtained sliding glass door obscured the interior. From beneath a frayed lawn chair, a scrawny black cat hissed and darted between Wayne’s legs. The big man jumped a foot off the ground. Once he collected himself, an embarrassed grin spread across his face, and he shrugged. Marlowe shook his head.
“I won’t mess up again. I promise. Don’t hurt me no more.”
The sound of a woman’s pleas met them a few feet from the glass. Wayne drew a Smith & Wesson .357, a monstrous thing, all shining silver with a black grip. Marlowe smirked, a fleeting thought about overcompensation drifting through his thoughts, pulled his own gun from beneath his jacket, and reached for the door’s handle.
“Shut up, bitch. I’ve had it with ya fucking everything up. First, you get yerself spotted, then ya call the pigs on me.”
Whack. A yelp and weeping.
Marlowe tested the latch. Minimal pressure broke the door free from the jamb an inch. He paused, listening. The yelling continued unabated. He glanced at Wayne, who took a deep breath and leaned forward. Marlowe flung the door wide and sprang into the room. The whole trailer smelled of cheap whisky and cigarette smoke. Not ones for tidy housekeeping, the place looked like the Grouch would feel right at home. Hustler and Penthouse magazines cluttered the floor and sofa, with crushed soda and beer cans swimming amidst empty potato chip bags.
The man grabbed Misty and pulled her to him, one hand across her chest clutching the opposite shoulder, the other holding a knife against her throat. A horrible memory hit Marlowe and rocked him back a step—Frank Brumbeloe with a blade to Katy’s neck.
Keep it together, Hoss. Different time, different asshole.
“Cory, let her go, you motherfucker,” said Wayne through clenched teeth.
The vehemence in his command dispelled the memory and brought Marlowe’s head up. A man with long greasy hair and a spider web tattoo on his neck held tight to a bawling Misty and squinted at Wayne. After a moment, recognition hit and his eyes popped wide, a spiteful sneer crawling over his lips.
“Officer Joiner? I’ll be damned. Long time no see there, buddy.” Cory stared at Wayne’s gun, aimed at his head, and yanked Misty up to shield himself. “How’s the missus?”
Marlowe glanced back and forth from Wayne to Cory before understanding struck home. Cory Manning, the guy who had raped and killed Wayne’s wife. Oh fuck, this could get really bad.
“Wayne, back off. I got this,” said Marlowe. He placed a gentle hand on the other man’s shoulder and tried to nudge him toward the door, but Wayne wasn’t budging. The muscle of his friend’s arms felt like steel cord beneath the uniform. A slight tremor vibrated against Marlowe’s palm, and Wayne’s hand trembled, finger on the trigger.
“Hey, it’s all good.” Cory let Misty go and tossed the knife onto a ratty sofa a few feet away. “See? No harm done.”
“On the ground.” Marlowe edged closer to Cory, keeping Wayne in his periphery.
“Huh, no need for that.” Cory offered a sinister gap-toothed grin. “Here’s what’ll happen. Misty ain’t gonna press charges ‘cause I got too much on the bitch. So save yerself the paperwork and let’s call it a day. I promise we’ll keep it to a low roar from here on out.”
“Not gonna happen, Cory. On the ground. Now.” Marlowe noticed Wayne had not lowered his gun. He looked over and the hatred in those eyes shocked him.
“Looks like our ol’ buddy ain’t ready to let bygones be bygones,” said Cory with a snicker. “Surely you’ve found some new pussy by now. Though doubt it’s as good as that skank you was married to. Some damn fine snatch right there.”
Four quick bursts exploded in the trailer and rattled the walls with deafening thunder. For an instant, Marlowe stood dumbfounded and stared as Cory Manning’s body slumped against the wall. All four slugs hit their marks—three center mass and one in the forehead. Blood spray covered the back wall like sickening modern art, bright red with bits of gray matter and white bone. Cory had no time to register surprise; his face froze in an amused expression, quickly painted in wet crimson. Marlowe’s first impulse was to wrestle Wayne to the ground and get the gun away from him. Wayne still aimed the .357 at Cory’s dead body, framed against the glass door in a statue pose. His expression stayed Marlowe in place. Haunted eyes, filled with pain and memories that would never diminish. Marlowe knew that look; he wore it himself. Images pounded into his mind—Katy lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Wayne’s wife raped and killed, the monster who did it walking free.
He retrieved the knife from the sofa, picking it up with a handkerchief by the blade, and dropped it next to Cory’s hand. Misty huddled in a corner too terrified to scream or cry. Marlowe took her arm and led her to the patio. From a distance, Larsen barked into the radio, Wayne’s receiver broadcasting the frantic call for backup. When Marlowe waved, the officer breathed a sigh of relief, and the frenzy of his call dropped a few decibels.
“Come on, bud. Let’s get you outta here.” Marlowe helped Wayne from the trailer with an arm around his shoulder and to the squad car. Quivering, Wayne sat staring straight ahead, his expression vacant, the red-blue alternating flashes coloring his face in a macabre mask. Marlowe knew exactly what played behind those eyes. In time, this retribution might ease Wayne’s pain and give him some small measure of peace, but for now, seeing Cory did nothing except bring all the memories flooding back.
Gratitude wasn’t Misty Carter’s strong suit; she claimed excessive force from the get go. Internal Affairs put Wayne and Marlowe through the wringer until evidence came back on the Fozzy Washington murder. Misty’s skin found underneath the victim’s fingernails, and her prints, along with Cory’s, all over the knife that proved to be the murder weapon, would see her locked up for a long while. With a witness placing Misty near the scene at the time of the murder, her word on the shooting held no weight, and Wayne ended up with a commendation.
He left the force anyway, his heart no longer in it, and moved to Atlanta where he took a job in private security escorting athletes, celebrities, and visiting dignitaries around the city. A few scrapes in which he saved some lives moved him on to the big leagues with a national outfit working New York, L.A., and D.C. Once his name became widely known in certain circles, Wayne started up his own business and from all accounts was quite successful. Marlowe lost touch with him after a while, but kept tabs on his progress. They exchanged Christmas cards and the occasional postcard—Wayne’s often from some tropical locale with a buxom blonde on his arm. Wayne did call after the Seraphim Killer case to check up on Marlowe. They had talked for a long time, never broaching the subject of the shootings. When the black Mercedes showed up outside his front door, Marlowe knew just who to call.
* * *
Becca left Marlowe and Wayne to reminisce and headed off to bed. Marlowe couldn’t help but catch the cool stare she gave him on the way out of the room. This situation didn’t look to improve matters between them. He expected to need a lot of cold showers for the foreseeable future.
“I’m going to need you
r discount rate, you know?” Marlowe smiled to hide his embarrassment. He hated to bring Wayne and his crew all this way when they could be making bookoodles of cash babysitting some trust fund kid, but necessity demanded he swallow his pride.
“Your money’s no good here,” said Wayne with a sheepish grin of his own.
“Come on. I know you make a small fortune doing this sort of thing. I have to pay you for your expenses getting out here and back.”
Wayne grew serious and looked Marlowe in the eyes. “Your money’s no good here.”
“Okay, okay. At least let me grill you guys some steaks and have some beers when we’re done.”
“Deal. But you may regret it. With the way these clowns eat, you may wish I’d of hit you with my regular rate.” Wayne laughed and turned up his beer.
Marlowe laughed along, though he wasn’t certain his friend was joking. “So, what’s your plan?”
Wayne set his drink on the coffee table. Marlowe snatched it up and slid a coaster underneath the bottle still bleeding condensation, and though Becca had headed to bed several minutes ago, he couldn’t help but glance over to make certain she didn’t see the unpardonable sin.
“Two guys patrolling the outside. Victor and me’ll stay on this floor with eyes on the front and rear doors. We’ll sleep in shifts with always at least two watching the perimeter. We can put out motion sensors and cameras if you want.”
“Let’s play it by ear. If we see anything suspicious, we can up the security. A lot of cats and dogs roaming the neighborhood, I don’t want to set off your electronics every few minutes.” Marlowe noticed the layout left one of Wayne’s crew unaccounted for, but he didn’t ask about it.
“How long you figure ‘til your friend gives up and heads back to Miami?”
“No idea. You know more about this sort of thing than I do.” Marlowe rubbed his temples, a sudden headache coming on.
“Well, I checked, and the Feds are all over this cat. No chance he moves on you personally, and anyone that could be tied to him is out as well. He could hire someone.” Wayne scratched at his beard. “I tend to agree with your friend in Vice; he’s most likely trying to spook you, give you some sleepless nights.”
“I can handle a few sleepless nights, so long as it isn’t more than that. Ricky says this is one nasty character, and he seems to have a hard-on for me.”
“No worries, brother. No one is getting near this house. You just make sure you watch your ass. It’s you he’s after.” Wayne arched an eyebrow to make sure Marlowe understood the seriousness of his admonishment.
“Yeah, I know. Spence is always with me though, and he knows what’s up.” Marlowe reached for his beer, but found he no longer had a taste for it.
“Try to get some rest. We got this.” Wayne patted him on the knee with a reassuring grin.
“Thanks, Wayne. I mean for all this.”
The big man stood and clasped Marlowe’s arm. “I owe you my life, or at least my freedom. There’s nothing you can ask I won’t do.”
Marlowe nodded, a knot caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and averted his gaze, afraid Wayne might mistake the moisture in his eyes. “I’m off to bed. See you in the morning.”
“Sure thing,” said Wayne.
Becca rolled over, putting her back to him as he entered the bedroom. At least she didn’t put him on the couch. Marlowe stripped down and slid into bed. He wrapped an arm around her and her body stiffened. With a sigh, he turned over, resting his wrist on his forehead. Staring up at the ceiling, a thousand thoughts whirled through his mind. Footsteps creaked in the hallway, reminding him of the men, trained and lethal, watching over his family. Marlowe allowed himself a moment of gratitude and drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER
9
The call came a little after three a.m. Marlowe had done no more than doze for two hours since crawling into bed. Becca tossed and turned, and though she refused to believe it, snored like a bear. He slung a leg off the bed and lurched across the floor toward the bathroom. Half-asleep, he forgot for a moment he wasn’t at home, ran into a dresser right where his bathroom door should have been, and stubbed a big toe.
Goddammit. Shaping up to be another shitty day in Marlowe World.
Holding his throbbing foot while bouncing to keep balance on the other, he glanced to Becca sleeping soundly and resented her for it…and maybe more. Once the Caesar Ramirez problem worked itself out, they would need to have a talk, and one that was a long time coming. A spare suit hung in the corner closet amongst Becca’s winter clothes. One of his older ones, chocolate brown wool, a bit snug in the waist and chest, but it would have to do for today. He’d stop by the house later and grab some things for himself, Paige, and Mable. God willing, they would be back home in a day or two. Marlowe eased his aching foot to the cool tile and rubbed his temples. How exactly he planned to know when the danger passed still eluded him. A tail on Ramirez seemed the best bet, but he had nothing on the guy to warrant surveillance. Even so, if Caesar was staying within the city limits, Fitzpatrick and Bateman could swing by on occasion to keep tabs.
After pouring coffee into a to-go mug, Marlowe left Becca’s cursing the still dark world. He swung by Metro and picked up the team—all bleary-eyed and sluggish with the exception of Kline, who appeared much the same as she had in the lieutenant’s office—stoic and unfazed—but fidgeting hands gave her away. He sympathized. Never fun to integrate into a new group, forced to prove herself all over again. Marlowe would try to keep Spence under control and not allow too much needling or hazing.
“Colburn County?” said Spence. “Uh, a little out of our jurisdiction. Not to mention an hour’s drive.”
“Wonderful. I get to sit scrunched against the Aqua Velva man for an hour.” Koop sat in the backseat of the Explorer with Spence, Kline in the passenger seat, their gear stowed in the rear. “Did you bathe in cologne?”
“Better than smelling like Ben Gay, you old coot.”
“It’s Bengay, my moronic friend. Ben may have been gay at some point, but apparently not anymore. And my joints are in excellent condition, thank you very much.” Koop arched his back and twisted against the leather. “This seat is simply uncomfortable.”
Marlowe huffed and said to Kline without glancing over, “I’d love to say you get used to them, but…”
She offered a semi-genuine grin. He had feared her face stuck in a blank expression, a mannequin with trembling hands. Kline smoothed her jacket and let the grin fade, drawing her lips into a resigned purse.
“So why did they call us in? It’s a one off, right? I haven’t heard anything about a possible serial.” Spence shoved his knees into the back of Marlowe’s seat, provoking a pained grunt.
“Do you have spiked knee guards on? Watch it.” Marlowe shot Spence a glare in the rearview mirror.
“The murder displays ritualistic signs. So close on the heels of Seraphim, the public would freak over another religiously motivated killer. The governor wants us to debunk any parallels. The press might use similarities as an angle to sensationalize this,” Kline answered with a little life in her voice. She might attempt to conceal her enthusiasm, but Marlowe detected a hint of excitement.
“And if we can’t?” Marlowe glanced over at her. “If it is another god-inspired whack job?”
“That’s what SVCU is for, right?” She shrugged and gazed out the window.
“Religious how?” asked Spence.
“A pastor burned at the stake,” said Kline as though ordering an omelet for breakfast.
“Crispy Christ on a cracker, Batman.” Spence crossed himself, though he wasn’t Catholic.
Koop’s eyes shot upward, darting across the ceiling.
“What’s with you?” asked Spence.
“I’m looking to avoid the lightning when God strikes you dead,” said Koop.
“Ha, ain’t got me yet.”
“I have my fingers crossed.”
“Can you two can it for a freaking second?”
Marlowe enjoyed their banter most days, well no he didn’t, but he wanted his mind focused. “Do we know more? Any specifics?”
“Not much. The pastor made the 911 call himself. EMTs arrived and saw the fire,” said Kline.
“The preacher called? That doesn’t make sense.” Spence stretched, kneeing Marlowe in the back again, and received an ‘I’m gonna kick your ass’ glower. “Sorry.”
“Perhaps the pastor immolated himself.” Dr. Koopman possessed a morbid delight with his job. Nothing bothered the old man—the more heinous the puzzle, the greater his enjoyment at putting the pieces together. It creeped Marlowe out, but he had to admit, no one was better.
“Then why make the call?” asked Spence.
“Cry for help?” Koop scribbled notes onto a pad. “Could be, he hoped the ambulance would arrive before hitting the broil setting.”
“Kinda flimsy, even for you.” Spence huffed and tried to stretch without his knees touching the back of the seat.
“Let’s not speculate. We’ll know when we get there,” said Marlowe.
“Fine. You guys need to hear about this chick I met at the club last week,” said Spence, to a groan from everyone in the SUV.
Spence dozed off after fifteen minutes of the group ignoring lurid tales of his tryst. His snore oscillated from a sinus wheeze to a raspberry and filled the cabin. Marlowe had wished for quiet, but now that he had it, three people sitting around him in silence made him uneasy.
“So, why did you leave the FBI?” he asked Kline.
Her head spun toward him, eyes wide. She stared at him a moment, and when he looked at her in confusion, she relaxed and sighed. “I wasn’t cut out for it…I guess.”
Marlowe waited, expecting more, but she returned her attention to the passing countryside. Since McCann’s office, he’d gotten the distinct impression she hid something, some part of her past she didn’t want them knowing. Her evasiveness only stoked his curiosity. He still had a few friends from his own short stint at the Bureau. Perhaps a few calls were in order.
The Dark Age Page 8